


Nivalis Osculum

by PhantomArchangel



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Kidnapping, Magic, Minor Dom/Sub, Multi, Smut, Vampire AU, Vampire!Quinn, Vampires, based off mtg's innistrad worldbuilding, human!Gim, minor blood play, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-16 10:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 85,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14162403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomArchangel/pseuds/PhantomArchangel
Summary: Every year, the Vampires of Dromund gather to hold court for the new Vampire Queen or King, an unlucky human kidnapped to be petted and cosseted for three days before a grand feast in which they are the main course.When Gimrizh Korribanil meets handsome vampire lord Malavai Quinn at a party, neither of them know that in a few short hours Gimrizh will be captured by Quinn's fellows as this year's Vampire Queen. Death is not an option Gimrizh is willing to accept, but as every potential ally turns their back and with the clock ticking, the stakes get higher - for everyone involved.





	1. Day Zero

**Author's Note:**

> Nivalis Osculum - Winter's Kiss.
> 
> For those of you familiar with Magic the Gathering's Innistrad expansion, this is where the idea of the Court of the Vampire Queen/King comes from. Chunks of creature mechanics have similarly been taken from mtg Innistrad. 
> 
> Endless thanks to riajade01 my enthusiastic beta who stalker read the google doc of this fic, fluffynexu who edited and also dragged my ass into Innistrad-loving hell to begin with, and inquisitorhotpants for putting up with the three of us rambling about this and also for donating Kryn to the cause

~*~

“Miss?”

Gimrizh looks up from the empty glass in her hand, a few deep red drops of wine left in the bottom. “Sorry?”

A lady in a sparkling blue gown has paused in front of her. She’s a still figure that stands out in contrast to the whirling dancers behind her. An abandoned dance partner with a sour look hovers at her shoulder. “You have a bit of…” She smiles and taps her neck, just under her right ear. “Right there.”

“Oh!” Gimrizh rubs at her neck, black soot coming off on her fingers. “Thank you, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Anytime. Enjoy the rest of your evening, miss!” The lady takes her partner’s hand again and returns to the dance floor like a jeweled bird fluttering back to its brightly colored flock.

It occurs to Gimrizh that she should really learn how to dance. If her intent is to continue doing business with Mancer Vette, then she’ll need to become accustomed to these parties that her ladyship insists on using to conduct her deals behind a curtain of privacy. Not that Gimrizh is against such measures. A Mancer’s trade is private by nature - she can understand that. She’s simply not used to it.

Even the dress she’s wearing now isn’t hers. Green skirts, more white lace than she could purchase with a year’s wages, and a corset ribbed with bone. Not whalebone of course, she can hardly afford to so much as _look at_ a whalebone corset. Such treasures from the Vaiken coast have become more and more expensive as of late. Trade caravans have slowed, some merchants vanishing completely on their travels. Rumors of gheist swarmed shipwrecks infesting the rocky shores to the east have spread inland far enough to reach the ears of Upper Welshire.

She drains her glass of the last dregs of wine and then drops it off with a server. As she makes her way through the massive ballroom, she tries to keep to the edges, avoiding getting swept up into the dancing or the mingling or the gentlemen in elegant coats who are busy pretending they’re not gambling.

A second drink is tempting, but if she’s going to be meeting with the Mancer she’d better be sober. Although that meeting seems to be taking quite a while to set up.

Her eyes scan the crowd.

Chandeliers glittering with thousands of candles drip from the arched ceiling. Candelabras are being lit on plinths in corners as the sun starts to dip outside, a red glow just barely beginning to burn across the sky. It had been noon when Gimrizh entered this damn manor. She knows she’s hardly the most important client of Mancer Vette’s but that’s no reason to be forced to wait such an absurdly long time. Especially since she’s only here to pick up one simple thing.

She spots her target leaning against the railing on an upper balcony. The man is easy enough to pick out. He looms above everyone else by a good couple of inches, the silk of his shirt stretched by dense ropes of muscle across his chest and arms.

Pierce. Not someone Gimrizh would be clamoring to get into a fight with.

Skirts gathered in her hand, she makes her way up the curving staircases to the upper levels where her mark is. Her free hand presses against her torso, feeling for the catch in her gown. It wouldn’t do to begin this conversation without her bribe on her. That would be both embarrassing and a guaranteed forced exit from the afternoon’s revelry. She’d have to wait potentially weeks to fill her order.

“Pierce,” she greets, giving him a polite nod. The cold metal presses against the small of her back as she casually rests her weight on the railing. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

When he turns to speak to her it reveals the heavy scarring that marrs the right half of his face. He frowns, a study in harsh lines. “I’m busy.”

“Yes, you look so very preoccupied up here all by yourself,” Gimrizh drawls. She jerks her head ever so slightly to the office door that he’s been guarding. “I’m a client of the Mancer’s. Gimrizh Korribanil.”

“The smith - yes, I remember you. What do you want?”

“Well I’ve been waiting quite a long time for my appointment you see. That’s not a complaint, I’m perfectly aware that the Mancer’s time is valuable and some of her more unusual clients can take some time. I’m just wondering if you could please tell me where I currently stand in the queue.”

He looks her up and down and whatever he sees makes a tinge of pity sink into his eyes. “Sorry. You’re dead last on her list.”

Damn. That could take hours. “I have to catch a caravan heading south tonight.”

“Not my problem.”

“For - I’m only here to pick something up. Not a damn consultation.”

“That’s too bad. Really, my sympathies. Still not my problem.” He sighs and tugs on his mane of hair, a mass that he’s made only the loosest effort to tie back. “Listen, there’s only five other people ahead of you. It shouldn’t be too long.”

Gimrizh knows better than that. “Really? How long has she been speaking to the client she’s with currently?”

“Two and a half hours - Not that it’s any of your business, but this guy wants an entire cartload of fresh fruit preserved for over a month. He’s hardly the usual customer. I’m sure that whoever’s after him will take far less time.”

“I’ve been summoned appear in Luthow within the week. Do you know when the next caravan crossing the Southern border leaves?”

“Do I care?”

“Two weeks from now. Does that sound like it meets my schedule?”

“Does it sound like I give a-” Pierce pauses. “Two weeks? _Exactly_? But that’s a full moon. What sort of madness is that?” That pitying look returns. “That’s rotten luck. My sincere condolences. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot I can do. You’re still last.”

Bribe then. Gimrizh taps her fingers up the lines of her corset until she feels the smooth metal she’s hidden. There’s a slit in her dress along her right side, disguised by a line of lace. Her middle finger catches on a thick ring and she slides it on, pulling it free. A flat wide knife, two inches long exactly, plunges out of the ring, the entire thing forged from the same bar of steel to form a solid build.

The glint of metal catches the light, drawing Pierce’s eye to her hand. She knows every part of the weapon better than she knows her own reflection. It’s easy to spin it around her finger a few times, twirling it and tossing it in the most showy manner she can bear.

Pierce clears his throat and tries to look like he isn’t surprised. “Someone should have taken that off you at the door.”

“You’d have more problems if your guards tried feeling up everyone who enters. And this? It’s quenched in blessed water,” she tells him. She flips the weapon in hand, catching the blade and holding the blunt ring section out to him, a clear invitation.

“Seriously?” His open jaw could catch flies. “That’s not cheap.”

“Neither is my time.”

He pulls out a handkerchief and wraps the fabric around the ring. Once it’s clear that she’s not going to take it back from him, he snatches it up, secreting it away in his pocket. “I’m beginning to see your point, Miss Korribanil.”

That’s better. She forces a thin smile onto her lips. “I’m next. If you don’t mind.”

“Done. It’ll still be awhile - but I suppose that’s better than nothing. Someone will be sent to fetch you when the Mancer is ready to see you.”

“Thank you very much.”

They shake hands, his grip strong enough to crush her fingers despite it clear that he’s not even trying to hurt her. Or perhaps he _is_ trying. She can’t actually tell if he likes her personally or not yet.

Status ever so slightly improved, she strides off, meandering along the balcony.

Good thing he doesn’t actually know that the next caravan heading south leaves in one week, not two. Even the most opportunistic of the merchant class would never travel across the Southern border during the full moon. The thick Vildenwald forest, well known for the werewolf howlpacks that inhabit it, stretches across the valleys that connect the northern parishes to the south. She can count on Pierce to be an amicable - if occasionally self-serving - bastard of the best sort, but she knows he doesn’t pay much attention to the travels of merchants and craftsmen like herself.

A bribe is good. A bribe combined with a bit of emotional arm-twisting is even better.

That knife didn’t even cost Gimrizh much to make. She’d filled an order for a set of ten over a month ago. The one she gave Pierce had been the spare she’d made in case one had warped irreparably after quenching. All the material costs have long been paid by the Marshall that had commissioned her.

She stops in front of a gilded floor length mirror decorating the halls. The smudge of soot under her ear is a persistent foe.

It’s almost completely hidden by her hair, no wonder she missed it when she was cleaning up this morning. A quick glance confirms that no one in the surrounding throng of people is looking at her. She licks her thumb without the slightest hint of dignity and rubs the ash off.

When she’s done, that patch of skin is a splotchy red but at least she’s clean. She sighs at her reflection and then turns around to walk back into the crowd.

Before Gimrizh can take more than two steps a hand presses against her waist.

Her heart skips. Instinctively she reaches for her hidden blade - instead a cold glass is placed into her open palm. Why is she holding a glass of wine? With her free hand, she goes to the one on her waist with the intent of snapping fingers -

“There’s no need for that.” A calm voice whispers in her ear.

She spins on the heels of her borrowed slippers to find herself face to face with a stranger, far too close for comfort.

Rich, is her first thought. Noble too, by the curve of his back and the casual elegance with which he holds himself. Her face flushes ever so slightly as she gets a better look at him. He’s taller than her, with dark hair that shines blue in the light, pale skin, and cheekbones that could cut glass. There’s a smirk on his lips that’s both infuriating and also more attractive than should be legal.

“My apologies,” she replies. She lifts her new cup in thanks. “May I have the privilege of your name?”

“Lord Malavai Quinn. No need to introduce yourself, I know who you are, Miss Korribanil. As a rule, I do not take kindly to someone cutting in front of me.”

Ah, so he’s the client who’s place she just took. “Then I owe you my apologies once again,” she says, unwilling to give up her new spot in the queue.

Quinn seems almost taken aback by what’s essentially her complete refusal to heed his unspoken request. “I have pressing business with Mancer Vette. I would appreciate it if we could part ways without much unpleasantness.”

“Unpleasantness?” The closeness between the two of them pulses in Gimrizh’s veins, a scant few inches separating them, her skirts brushing his boots. His hand is still on her waist. “Why, do my ears mistake me or is that a threat?”

“I would never,” he replies, faking a look of indignance without any real effort. “I just thought to inform you of what might happen if you refuse to heed my request.”

“Oh, not to worry. I have a few good theories already.”

“Really?”

She places her glass of wine on a passing servant’s tray. There’s no way she’s stupid enough to drink it. “Poison is frowned upon in polite society, Lord Quinn.”

His eyes are blue, she notices. Pale, shimmering blue and she can’t look away from him as he stares at her. “Poison?” He gives her an analytical once-over and then asks, “Why would you assume something so… _permanent_?”

“Mancer Vette is a specialist in stasis magic. I’m well aware of the more clandestine clients that particular talent caters to.”

For the briefest of moments, so brief that she almost thinks she imagined it, his brilliant blue eyes flash. “A reasonable suspicion. For the record, it was drugged, not poisoned. Clever first guess.”

Not that drastically off then. “A strange man handed me a glass of wine.” She raises a thin eyebrow. “I’m not fool enough to drink something when I can’t see where it came from.”

“How sensible of you. My offer of a drink could have been made in all sincerity, of course.”

“A Mancer’s party attracts all sorts,” Gimrizh says slyly.

That stupidly attractive smirk is back. Damn him for it. “Quite right.” He steps in closer, his breath ghosting over her ear as he whispers, “Now I’m going to have to ask once more, _politely_ , that you rescind your place in queue. Or if you’d prefer, a few acquaintances of mine can escort you from the premises. I can’t imagine that option would be very enjoyable for you, so I suggest you take the more pleasant choice.”

If his business is that pressing, he should have gone to the trouble of bribing Pierce just like she did.

The close quarters works in her favor this time. Faster than he can stop her, she pulls a thin blade from her sleeve and presses it between two of his ribs, digging the point just the tiniest bit into the fabric of his jacket. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline both offers,” she replies quietly. “Have you ever been stabbed in the stomach, Lord Quinn? I can’t imagine it would be a _pleasant_ way to die.”

His free hand reaches between them, cold fingers clamping down on her wrist. “I’d advise against that.”

Maybe he can overpower her - his grip is certainly unshakeable - but if she distracts him, she can slip the knife into his chest before he can stop her. If she brings one of her heels down on his instep, that’d startle him enough for her to get the blade buried home. “Oh? You could of course back off. You could stop trying to threaten me, get whatever goons you have to stand down, and we part ways with all our organs on the inside.”

“No, I’d advise against it because that man over there just saw your knife,” Quinn tells her, his aristocratic voice uncharacteristically rushed. Is that worry she hears?

She follows his gaze to see an elderly gentleman pushing his way through the crowd, shooting panicked looks at the two of them over his shoulder. Quinn _is_ worried and reasonably so. They’re screwed.

“ _Shit_ ,” she swears a few more times for good measure, “he’s heading towards Pierce. I can’t be caught instigating a fight!”

“How do you think _I_ feel?” Quinn demands. “I still have a half full vial of narcotics in my breast pocket - do you really think that will look good for me?”

Fighting is strictly prohibited at any and all gatherings of Mancer Vette’s.

If they’re caught in a conflict like this the both of them could be kicked out and told firmly to never return. Gimrizh wouldn’t get to pick up merchandise she’s spent months working on, she’d lose far more money than she’s willing to part with, and she’d be barred from any future business here. There are no other chronomancers within traveling distance - she’s out of options if she loses the ability to trade with Vette.

She and Quinn exchange a look. No spot in line is worth losing business entirely.

“Truce?” Gimrizh quickly offers. “That man doesn’t know us - he can’t identify us by name to Pierce -”

“If we hide, we won’t get caught,” he finishes.

They pull away from the crowd, turning down a quiet corridor. Quinn finds an unlocked door and pulls it open, ushering her inside before joining her.

It seems as though they’ve found themselves in a study, a desk and a bookshelf decorating the small room, with far fewer lit candles than the glowing ballroom outside. The two of them go dead silent as they wait for trouble to pass them by. Quinn presses his back to the door, listening for movement in the hallway.

Gimrizh, her knife still trained on him, grabs a quill from the desk. With one quick stab, she jams the tip into the door’s lock. Even with a key, no one should be able to get in.

“... just here, I swear it, ser…”

Her breath catches in her throat.

Footsteps pass them by. Can they hear her heartbeat? Surely it’s loud enough. She forces her breathing under control, forces her body to relax. All that matters is avoiding notice and staying quiet and she’ll be fine. Quinn seems to have mastered that art, he’s standing a hair’s breadth away from her and yet she can’t hear the slightest noise from him.

“... don’t have time for this. Go back to the party…” That’s Pierce. His voice recedes into the distance along with the beat of his footsteps. “... trouble over nothing… me know if you see them again...”

She and Quinn both sigh in relief before she remembers that the two of them are hardly allies and raises her knife once more.

“Really?” He holds up his gloved hands, palms out and open, the universal gesture of peace. “I doubt that bodyguard of Vette’s is far enough away that a fight won’t draw his attention again. Besides, talented though you may be, I can guarantee that you won’t be able to beat me like this.”

That’s fair. She holds up the knife, letting him see as she flips it to grip the handle and slides it back into her sleeve. The two inch long blade fits easily against her upper arm. “I cede the point. We can share the slot, if you’re willing. Conduct our business with Mancer Vette at the same time?”

He nods. “That sounds agreeable.”

Stiff tension still grips the two of them.

Then Quinn dips into a shallow yet elegant bow. “I suppose we’ll be sharing close quarters for a while. I offer my apologies for the unpleasant manner of my actions earlier. Shall we try for a second start?”

Why not? They are rather stuck here. She has time to kill before they can speak to Vette and can leave this party. She can admit that he’s the most interesting person she’s spoken with today. Even if she just gets to stare at his annoyingly handsome features, she’ll call that a win. Besides, his apology had been surprisingly sincere.

“Since you asked so nicely,” she allows, unconsciously smiling ever so slightly at him.

He takes her free hand and lifts it to his lips, his breath barely brushing over her knuckles, that self satisfied smirk on his lips as he does so. A pleasant shiver runs down her spine. “It’s truly a _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance, Miss Gimrizh Korribanil.”

Although he holds on for far, far longer than is proper, it still feels all too soon when he relinquishes her hand. He’s wearing pristine white gloves, silken to the touch and finely made. Over the cloth, a silver ring sits on his right ring finger. Steel, a simple band, but something about the engravings catches her eye. That’s been spelled, she’d bet the house on it. How interesting. Of course, it could be spelled for any number of purposes, there’s no reason for it to be inherently suspicious.

“The pleasure is all mine, my lord. Please, call me Gimrizh.”

“Isn’t that rather forward.”

“You drugged my wine, I’m sure you can be so bold as to call me by my first name.”

“Then I insist you call me Malavai.”

She unconsciously takes a step closer to him. Part of her is well aware that a solid chunk of the warmth that’s pulsing through her is simply adrenaline. The other part doesn’t really care. “Alright, _Malavai_ ,” she replies, drawing out his name. “How do you propose we pass the time until any attention is safely away from us?”

Elegant fingers reach out and brush a strand of her hair behind her ear. The simple touch sends an anticipatory shiver down her spine, heat pooling low in her stomach. He smiles as he toys with her. “You do know we need to keep quiet?”

Quiet. His silence… and the ring… Oh, of course.

She should have realized it earlier, honestly, but she was a tad distracted. “You can ensure we don’t make a sound, can’t you? Well, I’d have to stay close to you but unless I’m mistaken, that doesn’t seem as though it will be a problem.”

The slight tension in his eyes is only barely visible. She’s right. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

She leans back against the door frame. “Vampires can extend a three foot aura of silence from themselves at will. I know much about your kind isn’t well documented and though some of the information out there is blatantly false - I assure you, I’m quite well-read on the subject. More so than the average human.”

Shock freezes on his face. “I see,” he says, voice betraying no emotion at all.

She sighs and lays out the facts, “I’m not afraid of you, and at the moment I admit that I don’t particularly care. If you actually tried to bite me, you’d be banned from business with the Mancer - likely a similar ban would extend to the rest of whichever bloodline you’re from. You wouldn’t risk that. I’m in no danger from you for as long as I’m under this roof.”

“I don’t hunt for sport,” he firmly informs her. “And as you said, I would not risk such a thing in this manor.”

“Then it won’t be a problem, will it?”

“Not at all.” His eyes trail up and down her figure, slowly, as if making sure she notices. “I admit, I’m impressed you figured it out. What gave me away?”

She entwines her hand with his, running her thumb across his spelled ring. “I know the look of charmed steel. I’m guessing it’s a glamor to hide your true nature, that’s also why you waited until I was away from the mirror to approach me - the mirror wouldn’t have reflected the glamor and you didn’t want anyone seeing your true form. That, and the fact that when we were trying to hide I couldn’t hear anything from you at all.”

“You were - you were _guessing_?” He laughs, the sound startled from his lips as though she’s tricked him into it. “And here I was, worried that I had made some critical error in my disguise. I must admit, Miss Gimrizh, you’re the most interesting person I’ve spoken to here. It truly doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Although now I am curious as to what you look like without the glamor. Do you have giant fangs?” she teases.

“Nothing so stereotypical, I assure you. The change in my features is only slight - enough to reveal me in a crowd however.” His expression is almost predatory as he asks, “Would you like to see?”

Now she’s even more intrigued. This might be her only chance to speak with a vampire without the threat of death looming over her and she is genuinely curious. She’s heard rumors of how seductive vampires can be, right next to stories of the sheer terror victims feel when looking upon their attacker. Which is true, she wonders? Would Malavai be beautiful or terrible to behold?

They’re standing so close that she’s certain he can feel the excited thud of her heartbeat. “I would. If you don’t mind, of course, I wouldn’t want to insist.”

“I feel I should warn you,” he adds, “The glamor contains more than just a shift in physical appearance.”

“And by ‘more’ you mean...?”

“Natural charms can be dangerous. I don’t want to convince or trick you into something you are not willing to do with a clear frame of mind.”

“ _Oh_.” She twists her lips into a flirtatious smirk, “I’m willing.”

He leans in until he’s a breath away from her, and for a single moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her. “Good.”

Regrettably, he pulls away. He tugs off his left glove in a smooth motion and then addresses the ring on his right hand. His gaze meets hers as he quickly removes both the ring and glove, a self-satisfied smirk cutting across his face.

Beautiful or terrible - why in heaven’s name had Gimrizh assumed those two would be conflicting? Malavai, free of the trappings of glamor, is both. Black has darkened the whites of his eyes and a thin ring of gold wraps around his pupils. It doesn’t lessen the cold blue from before, oh no, it only accentuates it, makes his gaze on her all the more piercing, enticing, and unquestionably inhuman. The pale, nearly luminescent undertones of his skin, the unnatural luster of his hair, the way everything about him seems sharper, more intense, more stunning, just more - it takes her breath away.

Something makes her knees weak and it’s not just her.

Simply being close to him suddenly seems as though it could never possibly enough - she wants to kiss him, _no_ , she wants _him_ to kiss _her_ , she wants to be _consumed_ by him - oh fuck, so that’s what he meant by natural charms.

It’s so much better than what she had imagined. Oh, he’d warned her, she just hadn’t thought it would feel so incredibly immense.

She’s only peripherally aware when she wraps her arms around his neck, practically draping herself over him, more focused on him than she is on her own movements. “Why, my lord, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to seduce me.”

“I’ve been trying since before I took my ring off,” he replies, “Are you sure you feel alright?”

It’s not as though whatever aura the glamor was covering has changed Gimrizh’s mind. It’s just made her desire for him more powerful. Her attempt at a confirmation gets lost somewhere between her mind and her voice and what comes out is a breathless, “Just fucking kiss me already.”

“As you command then.” It almost sounds like a threat.

His lips capture hers. Softly at first, as if savoring his first sip of a particularly fine wine. For Gimrizh, it’s not nearly enough. She moans against him, eagerly parting her lips, allowing him to claim her mouth completely. His teeth scrape against her, sending sharp pangs of pleasure through her yet she can tell he’s careful not to actually draw blood. Kissing him is like kissing ice and fire, both at once.

When she has to pull back the slightest bit for breath, she asks, “Is it always this easy for you to get who you want?”

“Most aren’t quite so longing to be caught,” he replies, amusement shining in those hungry eyes of his.

She picks up where he left off. She tilts her head to give him better access, presses her body flush against his, anything to feed the all-consuming desire burning through her. A voice in the back of her mind whispers of the sweet pleasure that surrender will bring and even though she recognizes it’s not her own, she’s inclined to agree with it. She’d been inclined since they entered this damn room.

Long, almost clawed fingers gently wrap around her neck, tilting her head to the side as Malavai licks and kisses his way down to the crook of her neck, dragging moans from her as he goes. A chill lingers on her skin when he moves down, the cold intensified against the similarly unnatural heat coursing through her veins.

She whimpers as he lightly bites her. His teeth only barely don’t break her skin - and she’s sure he was at least partially lying about not having fangs because those are sharp. “You're walking quite a dangerous line there.”

“Would you prefer it if I stopped?” From his tone it's apparent that he already knows which answer she'll give.

“Don’t you _dare_.”

Faster than her eyes can see, he grabs her and slams her back against the wall. He pins her wrists above her head, grasping both her hands in one of his, easily restraining her. The thought of struggle doesn’t even occur to her. This is exactly where she wants to be - completely and utterly under his control. She doesn’t need the heady pulse of his aura flooding her system to know that she wants this.

“Aren’t you demanding?” he murmurs, his icy breath heating her skin, right along the hem of her bodice. “Why don’t we change your tone. Ask. Nicely.”

She bites her lower lip, “Please, _my lord_.”

Malavai slides one hand around her thigh, slowly tugging her skirts up. Why isn’t he going faster? She shifts her feet apart to help him, hoping that he’ll hurry up. “I have you in the palm of my hand and that’s exactly where you want to be, isn’t it? Held fast and desperate for whatever I deign to give you.” He doesn’t so much kiss her as lightly scrape his fangs against her neck, his lips barely brushing against her.

This stupid dress needs to get out of the damn way - finally his cold fingers grab her thigh, hitching her leg around his hips easily. His sharp claws digging into her skin, the pressure of his leg against her inner thigh - “Yes, fuck yes - _please_.”

“So eager…. it’s almost as good as your blood.”

He tightens his grip on her wrists for a second but not releasing her. Pins and needles shoot through her hands as he squeezes, making her blood pool in her palms, her wrists aching. This is the first bit of pain that worries her. Lack of circulation has problems - and she hates how she can barely feel it as his thumb caresses her skin. He practically groans as he kisses her wrist, languid, his tongue dragging over her racing pulse.

She yelps as his claws rake across her skin, leaving hot red lines down her thigh. The pain makes warmth pool between her legs. Pointlessly, her hands curl into fists above her head.

“ _Please,_ ” she begs again, “I’m yours.”

She can hear his sharp intake of breath at her declaration, his lips against the hollow of her throat. “That’s it, darling.” His voice is practically a purr, the sound of a thrilled predator playing with its prey. “Surrender yourself to me.”

His hand leaves her thigh, and a needy, groaning sob of protest is torn from Gimrizh’s lips.

“Patience,” he murmurs against her skin. His voice shakes as if he’s just barely keeping himself in check.

Suddenly his hand is back, now at the apex of her thighs, caressing her gently. She slides her foot to the side as far as she can, practically hanging by her wrists now, and cants her hips toward his hand. Something sharp traces up the center of her clef. She feels more than hears the fabric of her undergarments rip.

His fingers on her bare flesh are like ice. The inhuman heat coursing through her yearns for it, making her sensitive folds throb with need as he teases one finger through the wetness between her legs. A few seconds of waiting seems an eternity of torture. She cries out when his cold touch slides slick against her clit. Further desperation and relief from finally being touched properly floods through her.

All too soon, he removes his hand, drawing a desperate whimper from her. There’s a deep hunger in his eyes as he brings his fingers to his lips, devouring all traces of her juices from his claws.

“Malavai,” she sobs,  “You can have whatever you want, just _please_ , I need you inside me.”

A pleased shudder runs through him at her words. “ _Fuck_ …” He groans and then plunges forward to claim her lips as if chasing the taste of her.

Both of them briefly fumble, him undoing the buttons on his breeches, and her hooking her other leg around his waist, trusting completely in his strength to keep her up. A slipper tumbles from her foot in the process. Her knees dig into him, trying anything to pull him closer, driven by a desperate need for him to hurry up and fuck her already.

She barely registers his cold fingers digging into her hips, holding her against him as he drives his cock into her. The hardness of him, stretching her cunt open, it’s transcendent. A heady cry dies in the back of her throat, her head tilted back in pleasure. She’s so wet, so desperate, that it’s easy for Malavai to hilt himself fully inside her, both of them breathless as she pushes her hips flush against his.

Sharpness pierces her thigh.

It must have been on accident, because Malavai looks as surprised as she is - but there’s a tiny stain of her red blood on his claws. He buries a kiss in the crook of her neck, the sound of his moan against her skin reverberates through her blood.

Whatever control he had breaks, finally moving inside her, fucking her roughly, desperately, a single-minded craving that she eagerly reciprocates. It’s a good thing that he’s still holding her, that his weight is pinning her to the wall, because she knows there’s no way she could stand on her own. She can’t remember feeling such a delicious fullness in her cunt before, every exquisite thrust making the head of his cock hit the perfect spot inside her.

The thrum of his aura under her skin sings.

Aching pleasure coils tightly in her belly. He sets a fast past, drawing incoherent pleas from her as she moves to meet him. Cold kisses her neck as he works his mouth over the skin there, his fangs pressing fervently against her artery but never moving more than that, not biting, not indulging the way his tongue rakes across her throat.

He could kill her without a thought, she thinks, without breaking a sweat. He could snap her neck and leave her body in this room and no one would know until after he'd completed his business with the Mancer. No one would even know for sure it was him. Even if he dug his fangs into her neck and drank her blood till she’s dry, there must be a dozen other vampires here who could take the blame for his actions.

He could conceivably kill her with no consequences whatsoever and in this particular second, she wants him not in spite of that but because of it. There's a tiny part of her that knows enough to be afraid but it's just feeding the rest of her that’s so desperate for him it hurts.

The heat building inside her breaks. She comes with a scream, pleasure so intense it borders on pain rushing through her in waves.

Malavai devours her screams, kissing her, his teeth scraping her lips, his tongue erratically sliding against hers as she rides out her climax. Her inner walls clench around him, compounding his pleasure. He follows her over the edge with a shout, his voice drowned in the heat of their kiss.

They both float in the bliss for a moment.

Once Malavai has the presence of mind to pull out of her, he immediately holds out his blood stained fingers to her. “Clean this up for me, darling.”

Obligingly, she sucks his fingers into her mouth, running her tongue over the few drops of her own blood, the pervasive taste of iron unpleasant and if she weren’t so high on endorphins and riding a post-sex haze, she’d probably gag. She hums around his fingers and then lets him withdraw, now without a single trace of blood. “Why?” she asks, the ability for speech slowly returning to her, “I thought - I thought that you would want my blood.”

“I know one taste wouldn’t be near enough.” There’s a seriousness in his eyes that wasn’t there before - if he consumed even the slightest amount of her blood he very well might drink her till her last drop.

He releases her wrists. A brief stretch gets all the pops out and then he gently takes one of her hands, lazily gliding his tongue across the length of her forearm, inhaling her scent. He nips at her pulse point one last time before letting her go. “Heaven above, you smell tantalizing. You truly have no idea, Gimrizh.”

She practically giggles as she asks, “What do I smell like? Flowers?”

“Nothing so fanciful,” he replies, that smirk that first drew her in returning to his lips. “You smell like meat. As do all humans. Particularly fine meat, but still.”

That declaration sends another shiver through her shaking, exhausted body. They part and try to clean up.

Malavai fixes his breeches as she lets her skirts down and retrieves her fallen shoe. There’s a slippery mess between her legs that she knows full well she can’t fix until she’s back home, but at least it won’t ruin her rented dress. The idea of walking around the Mancer’s party like this, with clear evidence of their little indiscretion smeared across her thighs - it’s an embarrassing yet surprisingly erotic thought.

“Well,” she asks with a smile, “despite being like ‘all humans’, I hope I was at least a good fuck?”

He laughs, tucking one finger under her chin to pull her in for another kiss. Brief this time, just enough for his cool lips to murmur against hers, “I assure you, you are undoubtedly the best human I’ve had.”

“Flatterer,” she drawls. As she bends to put her shoe back on, she catches sight of the quill she used to lock the door. “We should probably return to the ballroom soon,” she says regretfully, “Pierce will be sending someone to fetch me for my appointment with the Mancer shortly. I doubt either of us want to miss that.”

“Seeing as we went to such trouble earlier…” he adds wryly.

A gasp leaves her as he slides his ring back on. The seductive aura that filled her before suddenly leaves, vanishing from her blood and leaving her aching from it’s withdrawal. That certainly is an interesting effect. Oh, she’d loved it, and if they ever happen to meet under such favorable circumstances again, she would hardly protest a repeat. That said, it’s disorienting to come out of the experience.

The illusion of humanity returns to Malavai’s face, the black and gold fading from his eyes - he blinks and then it’s gone completely.

What’s not missing from him is the lust in his eyes as he watches her smooth out her hair. From his pocket, he withdraws an embroidered white handkerchief and offers it to her. “You might want to wear this around your neck. I marked you up rather thoroughly.”

Damn. She doesn’t want the Mancer - or worse, Pierce - too see the aching red marks Malavai has left on her. “Thank you,” she says gratefully as she takes the handkerchief.

It’s a pure white, trimmed with lace, but it’s the insignia masterfully stitched on the corner that stands out. Tiny beautiful needlework forms two swords, one blue and one black, crossed over each other, surrounded by elegant scrollwork. “I’ve never seen this before - what is it?”

“It’s a coat of arms,” he replies. “The crossed swords are the symbol of the House of the North, to which my bloodline owes allegiance.”

“Ah.” She folds it lengthwise into a band and wraps it around her neck like a priest’s collar, tying a neat bow to one side that shows off the coat of arms. She hopes that it looks intentional enough to pass as an accessory and not a concealer.

He pulls the quill out from the lock and then offers her his arm. “Ready?”

“Yes, I think we look sufficiently decent.” She takes his arm with a smile, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Thank you, my lord.”

He dips his head to whisper in her ear, “That's what you should have cried when you came.”

A pang of lust shoots through her. “Wouldn’t you prefer me to stroke something besides your ego?” she asks teasingly.

That surprises another laugh from him. “Perhaps I’ll take you up on that offer later,” he replies lightly, and then he opens the door and they fall silent.

The hallway is empty when they step out of the office. Muffled voices of people ahead drift down through the corridor, guiding them back to the lights and hub of the party. They easily slip back into the throng of partygoers. Everyone around them is too caught up in their own chatter to notice two people quietly move through the crowd.

She looks across the balcony, seeing the far away figure of Pierce standing at his guard post as he should be. “Can you see the man that caught us fighting earlier?”

“Hm.” Malavai leads her to the railing, looking down at the swirl of dancers in the sprawling hall below them. To her eyes, it’s near impossible to pick out such an unfamiliar face amidst the revelry. “Ah, there he is. He’s dancing with some woman - I doubt he has any interest in looking for us anymore.”

Good. Dodging that man for the rest of the evening would have been troublesome. Especially given that they need to make themselves available for Pierce’s messenger. Despite how pleasant she finds Malavai’s company, she still hopes that their appointment will be soon.

Business trumps pleasure.

“In that case,” she suggests, “I’ll take you up on that earlier offer of a drink. So long as you don’t drug this one.”

“I don’t think I need that with you anymore.”

He picks up two glasses of a sweet smelling red from a server. Her fingers brush against the metal of his ring when he hands her a glass. It’s a testament to just how intoxicating that natural charm of his had been - she can’t stop thinking about the way it set her blood aflame. Business before pleasure, she reminds herself. Maybe if they have time after meeting the Mancer they could find somewhere out of the way for a round two. That’s the most she’ll allow herself to think about.

She raises her glass in false toast before taking a deep sip. “I can finally say, with all sincerity, ‘thank you for the drink’.”

“You’re welcome.” He drinks wine exactly how she would expect someone of his title to. He swirls the red around briefly in his glass, pauses before sipping to smell the flavor. It does make her curious again.

“I have to ask. The wine. Can your kind actually… eat food?” She cringes after that question. It sounds so rude.

He shrugs, considering the wine in his hand, “Yes and no. We can taste human food and enjoy it well enough, but it doesn’t actually provide any sustenance. For that, only blood will do. And that tastes better than anything else.”

“Do you die?” She can't help that question. It's almost part of her job to know. “If you don't feed on humans, do you die? Can vampires be starved?”

The frown he gives her is tinged with suspicion. “My dear Miss Gimrizh, a gentleman does not reveal all his secrets.”

That's fair. She supposes it was too much to ask for - too much to hope that he might give some clue towards a weakness of his kind. Besides, she's pretty sure that the answer is ‘yes’. Otherwise she suspects he would have boasted about invincibility. Starvation kills more humans than the sword does. He would be at least a little braggadocious if vampires suffer no such hardship.

“May I ask a different question?” When he offers no protest she continues. “What’s the north like? I’ve never been further than Glarus Reach.”

“It’s colder,” he replies with a sharp laugh. “Not much more than that I’m afraid.”

So he doesn’t like the north. Interesting. Even though Gimrizh finds Upper Welshire dreadfully boring at times, it is her home and she holds some warmth for it in her heart. Had he asked her, she would at least have tried to present the more appealing aspects of her home parish. Whatever - she shouldn’t keep trying to analyze him. In all likelihood, they’ll part ways tonight and never meet again and that’s the way it should be.

She smirks at him over the rim of her glass. “I suppose the both of us are rather attached to secrecy.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes, amused rather than annoyed. “It seems as though you know far more about me than I know about you.”

“You could always ask. I might indulge you.”

There’s a moment as he seems to think over the best possible question. Then he asks, “What is your business with the Mancer?”

“Ah. That I’m not willing to tell you.” She laughs, “Back to secrecy then?”

He tips his glass towards hers, a quiet clink. There’s a smile on his lips as he drinks deeply. “To secrecy.”

She can toast to that.

“Excuse me, Miss Korribanil?”

The two of them turn to see a man dressed in a simple black and white butler’s uniform. He’s smiling blankly at them - at last. Their meeting with the Mancer.

“Yes,” Gimrizh replies, “I take it Mancer Vette is ready to see me now? Is it acceptable if I bring a friend with me to share my time slot?”

He bows, “Of course, Miss. Please proceed her ladyship’s office at your earliest convenience.”

Message delivered, the butler scurries off.

“Shall we?” she asks Malavai.

“Lead the way, darling.”

They abandon their glasses on a table and make their way through the crowd, crossing the balcony towards Pierce and the office that he guards.

Pierce just nods at her as they pass. Malavai however, gets a very suspicious glare that he brushes off with a flippant smirk, paying the bodyguard no further attention as the two of them step through the Mancer’s door.

Even though Gimrizh has been inside Vette’s offices once before, the sheer mysticality of it makes her breath catch.

It’s more a huge study than an office, walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. The spines are illegible, unfamiliar markings sprawling over the covers. Here and there sits a curiosity - faintly luminous stones, jars of liquid that swirl without outside movement, a knife embedded in a skull. One entire case is filled with at least a hundred hourglasses. Not all have sand inside either, Gimrizh spots one filled with rubies, another with shards of bone.

And the woman herself.

Mancer Vette is the most eye catching thing in the room. Waxy skin tinged green, unnaturally shimmering purple eyes - all speak to her Dryad ancestry.

She rolls up a star chart that’s been sitting on her desk and greets the two of them. “Gimrizh, pleasure to see you again. And Lord Quinn - what a surprise. I was unaware the two of you knew each other.” It’s not phrased as a question. “No matter. Let’s get down to business, shall we, gents?”

“Thank you for your time, madam,” Malavai says with a curt nod. “I believe all that you need from me is my signature?”

“Ah yes.” Vette withdraws a stack of papers from a desk drawer. She flips through them, pointing to lines in the dense text, “Sign here, and initial wherever you see an ‘x’. A couple of my men are handing off your order to your associates as we speak.”

“Certainly.” Malavai takes a seat on the other side of her desk. His elegant fingers grab a quill and he begins to go through the papers.

There’s no way the Mancer will actually speak about the details of Gimrizh’s order - is there? As much as she is perfectly at ease fucking Malavai in a deserted office, she’s uneasy about him being able to see the particular touches of her own work. No - of course not. All she knows about Malavai’s order after all, is that it is too big for him to pick up directly, and even that is more an educated guess than anything Vette let slip.

If the Mancer is anything, she’s a consumate businesswoman. Malavai won’t discover anything at all.

Vette goes to one of the bookshelves and retrieves a long rectangular wooden box. She holds it out, her back to Malavai so that he cannot see. “Here you are, Gimrizh, as promised.”

“Was there any trouble?” She can’t help but ask. Months of her own work went into this piece. She would be devastated - emotionally as well as financially - if it went to waste.

“Not a bit. Although don’t get me wrong, this was probably the most difficult job I’ve had in some time.”

Holding her breath, Gimrizh opens the crate. The object within is packed neatly in straw and wrapped in a burlap bag. She pushes the fabric back and sees, for the first time since she left it with the Mancer two months ago, the finest sword she’s even forged.

It’s a standard longsword, perfectly straight and balanced, edge shining even after being tucked away and denied a good polishing. She slides it out of its scabbard just an inch to see the glint of silver - pure silver wire inlaid down a deep fuller on both faces of the sword, running to an inch before the tip of the blade. The silver runs up, loops around a crossguard designed with sharp enough edges to bash in a skull, and then twists around a pale, off-white wooden handle. Two wires spiraling parallel around and around each other until ending at the pommel, carved into a wicked point.

Vette’s handiwork is prominent, a series of runes covering every inch of the handle, some carved, some painted, not one of the symbols interfering with the silver’s run from fuller to pommel.

Quenched in blessed water, covered in burning silver, and finished with preserved rowan. The perfect blade for killing creatures of the night.

It’s not really hers of course, it belongs to her client. But it’s her work and possessive satisfaction curls within her at the sight of her finest efforts fully realized. All she’d needed Mancer Vette for was the preservation of the handle, every single other bit of work had been done by herself.

Lords might pay her for fancy ornate daggers, village watchmen might buy her sturdy spearheads, and hunters might come to her for a well-balanced axe, but this is what she is truly _fucking good at_.

“Who do I send the bill to?” Vette inquires.

Gimrizh closes the crate and takes it into her arms, letting Vette return to her desk to fill out an invoice. “High Marshall Andaran Thul of Luthow.”

“Ah, that rich bastard. Can’t wait for him to finally kick it,” Vette muses as she scrawls the name down and price down on the form. She looks up, her eyes glancing from Malavai - who’s doing an admirable job of feigning disinterest - to Gimrizh. “You’re wasting that _artistry_ on the ol’ Marshall?”

That’s business. “He’s the one paying.”

“Can’t argue with that.” She holds out her hand to Malavai, “Done with those?”

He surrenders the paperwork and the forms are quickly sorted into one of the many stacks on her desk.

“Thank you for making this quick, I really do appreciate it,” Vette says, one green finger pointed politely towards the door, “Enjoy the party. And Gimrizh, feel free to commandeer one of my carriages. It’ll be getting dark soon.”

Taking that clear dismissal for what it is, Gimrizh casually takes Malavai’s arm again as they leave. The crate is light enough that she can tuck it under one arm.

Outside, Pierce is arguing with another client of the Mancer’s, allowing them to slip past him without notice and without Malavai garnering any further glares from the man. Does Pierce know of Malavai’s nature? Presumably, given that it’s a given Mancer Vette is well aware of her client’s - what’s the phrase? ‘Condition of the blood’, that’s it. Even if Pierce knows, Gimrizh is safer with Malavai now than she was before what with the weapon she holds.

“You really won’t tell me what’s in that crate?” Malavai asks once more, just as banter and without real complaint.

“Never ask a lady about the contents of her box,” she replies with a laugh.

They make their way downstairs. She’s content to hang off his arm, the cold that radiates from him dimmed with both the application of his glamor and the layers of thick fabric between them. It’s a little disappointing when she notices the lowering sun outside. She’s still tempted to stay, for just a little while longer, and enjoy Malavai’s company, even if they don’t end up disappearing to a private room again.

Pity that he’s too dangerous for her to stay in contact with.

“I should probably leave,” she tells him softly. “I’d love to stay with you for awhile, but I do have a schedule that I need to meet.”

Her own regret is clearly reflected in his eyes. “Of course. Let me at least escort you to the door.”

A chill wind blows outside.

Red and orange sit low on the horizon, darkness creeping across the sky like a blanket. It’ll be completely dark shortly. Gimrizh needs to return home, change, grab her bags, and then head to meet the caravan before the sun has completely set. The caravan is supposed to be gone from the city by one hour past sundown. Whatever she does, she can’t miss that, not if she wants to deliver her commision on time.

With a quick word, she sends one of the footmen to fetch her the ride that Mancer Vette had promised.

“My carriage isn’t far,” Malavai suggests, ever so slightly hopeful, “I could offer you a ride to wherever you wish to go. It would be no trouble, I assure you.”

Oh how she wishes that she could be promised safety with that option. A shared ride, enough privacy behind a curtain for a quick repeat of earlier - she has to admit it’s appealing. If he wasn’t under a glamor, she might even say yes. As it is, her lust is only just outweighed by her sensibility. Under the Mancer’s roof she might be safe. In a carriage owned by Malavai - there’s no telling where she’d end up, if she even made it to her destination alive.

She gives him a short, sad smile. “We both know why I can’t accept that.”

“I know,” he agrees.

He relinquishes her arm and gives her a final kiss. Oh yes - she’s going to miss this. Her lips part with a sigh, allowing his tongue entrance to scrape against her teeth, teasing a low moan from her. An ache of familiar heat runs through her. It’s tinged with a bittersweet aftertaste, knowing that this is the last time she’ll ever kiss him.

“You’re too talented for my own good,” she tells him. She means it as a light joke but it’s more serious than she intended. The fact that she’s even tempted to take his offer of a ride is a testament to how dangerous his allure could be to her.

Wheels clatter on stone as the carriage pulls up behind them.

Malavai sweeps into a bow, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, an echo of his first move to seduce her. “Thank you, Miss Gimrizh, for the most memorable evening I’ve had in some time.”

“I won’t be forgetting you any time soon either, my lord,” she replies, savoring the cool touch of his lips before they part.

She lets the footman help her into the carriage, pulling her crate onto her lap as she takes her seat. The door shuts, the driver stirs the horses into action and she begins to roll away. Before Malavai is completely out of her sight, she has a final burst of audacity and turns to blow a cheeky kiss at him through the window. From his satisfied smirk as he watches her leave, she can tell he saw it.

A memorable evening indeed.

That’s how it should be. An hour of thrills. No encore. She’s leaving for the southern border tonight and he’s returning to the North, they won’t have cause to meet again, and she prefers it that way He’s too dangerous for anything more. No matter how much she enjoyed her time with him, she enjoys living more. If they ever met again, it’d be a massive risk on her part. The Mancer’s party probably is the only set of circumstances that would allow them to enjoy each other’s company - and even then it hadn’t been completely free of danger for her.

Vette’s manor sits in the city’s center, surrounded by the other estates of those rich enough to afford space in the heart of Upper Welshire and social enough to not want to be parted from the hub of commerce. In contrast, Gimrizh’s home is on one of the smaller market streets near the gates.

She finds herself tapping her foot impatiently as the carriage rolls through the city.

Part of her rush is legitimate, but it’s mostly that she’s itching to burn off the lust that’s still curling inside her. The sooner she’s back to business and on the road, the better. A trek through the Vildenwald is just what she needs to cool down. She should be dead tired by the time they hit the Southern border in the early morning and then she can rest at the first town they reach outside of the forest.

At last. The carriage comes to a stop in front of her shop.

She’s outside and grabbing the crate before the footman can open the door for her. “Thank you very much,” she tells him before marching towards home.

The sign on the door has been flipped around to display ‘ _Closed, return later_ ’ but the lights are still flickering inside.

“Tremel!” She calls out as she steps inside. The crate gets left in the main shop, propped up behind the counter. She briefly steps out through the back door, checking the quiet forge for any sign of her business partner. “You better have my bags packed - I don’t want to miss the caravan!”

The floorboards above her creak and then Tremel’s exasperated voice comes down the staircase, “Everything’s ready. What took you so long?”

She heads up the stairs to the landing, finding him in the small kitchen, sipping a mug of bitter coffee. “Sorry,” she says, not really apologetic. “I started the evening dead last on the Mancer’s list - it took me a bit to work my way up the queue.”

“I hope you at least got a satisfactory piece.”

“Oh, I’d say I did.”

Leaving him to his drink, she hurries into her room. Sure enough, there’s a packed knapsack resting at the base of her bed. She toes out of her slippers and starts to strip. Undoing the laces on her dress are a damn pain without help, but Tremel has a daughter the same age as her and they established early on that he was not comfortable assisting her in such a manner. They work well together. That doesn’t make them friends.

The box the rented dress arrived in is still resting atop her table and she places the folded green fabric back inside.

A damp washcloth cleans up the mess between her thighs and removes the few flecks of dried blood from Malavai’s claws. She fingers the handkerchief around her neck, debating whether or not to remove it. In the end, she lets it stay. The last reminder of a particularly enjoyable evening.

She changes into traveling clothes - breeches, a vest, a heavy coat to ward off the night air, and finally a pair of well-worn leather boots. Two short daggers slide into her boots, the knife from her dress now sheathed in a belt pocket. A few extra touches in case they run into bandits never hurt.

Her bag gets slung onto her back and then she’s ready.

“Please return the dress to Madam Taunt's,” she reminds Tremel on her way out. “I cut a thin slice in the bodice, but it was along a seam. Shouldn’t cost much to repair. Don’t forget to tip her, by the way.”

He doesn’t bother to get up from his seat. “I’ll tip her when she’s earned it,” he grumbles.

Downstairs, Gimrizh straps two bands of leather around the sword crate, attached to each other with a third band so that she can sling it over her shoulder. That’s better than having to give up an arm for the entire trip in order to carry the thing.

“She puts up with _you_!” she yells up the stairs, “If that’s not earning a tip, I don’t know what is!” She grabs her hat from the peg by the door, tugging it down over her hair before shouting a final message. “I’ll probably be back in a week!”

Tremel’s shout of agreement is more of a grunt than anything else, falling quietly on Gimrizh’s ears as she steps outside.

It rained earlier.

Water still runs between the cobblestones, pooling in dips in the road, and splashing against her boots. The noise of the city is dying down with the sun. A few distant shouts of merchants echo through the streets and the occasional rider on horseback passes her. Apart from that, there’s little of the city’s usual bustle.

It’s night out by the time she makes it to the city gates. The stars and the moon, a waning crescent, cast a dim pearly sheen upon the world.

Torches line the city walls, red and orange lighting up the one part of the city that never sleeps. Gimrizh tips her hat to the guards posted at the gates. They pay her little attention as she leaves the walls of Upper Welshire. People leaving the city aren’t as much of a threat as what is potentially trying to get in.

Just outside the walls is the caravan.

A few wagons are slowly being packed up, torches lit and strapped to anything that can carry the flame, men and women mounting horses in preparation to leave. She’s made it - just in time, it would seen.

She nods in greeting to people as she passes them, making a beeline towards the leader of the caravan. “Marshall Ulgo!”

The Marshall is a grisled looking man, patches of white beginning to enter his short beard. Thin metal plates his upper arms and chest, and he carries a sword along with the six-pointed star of the church. He glances up at her before returning to fixing his horse’s saddle. “Good evening to you, Miss.”

“I’m Gimrizh Korribanil - I sent word ahead that I’d be joining you across the Southern border.”

“You’re right on time then. Give me your hand.”

She tugs off her leather gloves and holds out her palm for him. The silver star of the church gets tugged from the Marshall’s belt and he presses the pendant into her skin, waiting a moment to see if there’s a burn.

It comes away clean.

He tucks the pendant back into his belt and waits for her to put her glove back on before he offers her his hand. “Good to have you with us.”

She shakes his hand firmly. “Thank you for allowing me to tag along.”

One of the women from the wagon behind them passes a burning torch to Ulgo. “We’re ready to head out,” she informs him in a gruff voice.

“Alright.” Marshall Ulgo lifts the torch into the air and speaks up. He possesses that lucky ability of not needing to shout to be heard across distances, his booming voice easily reaching to the back of the ragtag group of wagons, riders, and those on foot. “ _Attention_! We’re moving out - we should reach the Vildenwald shortly. From there it’s nine hours till the Southern border. We’ll stop in Luthow by morning light.”

A few people cheer, some of those who look more tired just nod.

Gimrizh holds out her hand to the Marshall, “Ser? Let me take the torch for you. Use both hands for the reins.”

“Ah, thank you.” He passes her the light and climbs into his saddle. His horse, a calm chestnut mare, easily responds to his slight commands and starts trotting forward. On his signal, the entire caravan starts to move forward, heading at a steady pace away from the city and towards the dirt paths sloping down into the valley. It’s an easy enough speed for Gimrizh to keep by the side of the Marshall’s horse.

Upper Welshire is nestled between the Juran mountains. Only one path leads safely south, a road that slowly dips down towards the sprawling Vildenwald. Gimrizh has taken the path six times before, three trips there and back, once to Luthow and twice to Belsire.

“Will we be taking the Faebower, ser?” she asks the Marshall.

He nods, his eyes beadily focused on the gentle decline, as if danger is already upon them even though they are traveling during the safest time of the month. “I know the Faebower better than the back of my hand. It’s certainly an easier path than skirting around by Riverfall Cliffs - that’d take us an extra day at least.” He frowns and then looks down at her. “Are you traveling alone, Miss?”

She pointedly looks over her shoulder towards the group behind them. “Not really, wouldn’t you say?”

Whatever levity she’d been hoping for falls flat under his stern look. “Hm. You’d best stay close to me then. This group - merchants, clergy, whatever - they’re all the same. Everyone here is only looking out for themselves. Even you.”

How depressing. “What about you then?”

“I’ve sworn my life to protect the people. That trumps any instinct of survival.”

“You’re certainly a cheerful person, Marshall Ulgo.”

He jerks his chin towards the valley ahead. “I’ve lost chunks of my flesh to werewolves multiple times in the Vildenwald - I know full well that danger lurks in those trees.”

“It’s not a full moon. It’s not even close.”

“Bandits.”

“That’ll attack a guarded caravan?”

“Stupid bandits.”

She can’t help but laugh at that. “All that paranoia and you’re still traversing the Vildenwald at night? You _must_ be brave.”

He snorts in amusement. “You _businessmen_.” She’s almost offended by that - his tone alone is so condescending that it makes her want to spit on him. “Not a lick of sense between the lot of you. I’ve long since accepted that dangers such as nighttime or moon cycles matter little in the world of coin. This is the last, and very _delayed_ caravan heading south before the fete week in Luthow - you lot would be heading south tonight with or without me. I’m just along to ensure your survival as is my duty.”

“You have a rather low view of people. Besides,” she adds sharply, “I’m not a merchant. I’m a craftswoman. The only work I sell is my own.”

“Oh? My apologies. What is your craft?”

“I’m a weaponsmith,” she replies. If she’s more curt with him than she’d usually be, so be it. His rudeness deserves it. “That’s my business in Luthow - delivering a finished piece to a client, nothing more than that.”

There’s more respect on his face when he looks at her this time. “I take it that’s the contents of that box you’re carrying. If it gets too heavy, you can always double back to one of the wagons and take a brief rest. It’s going to be a long walk and a long night. Don’t feel as though you need to keep pace the entire time.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m not going to risk sleeping so long as I have this on me. If someone were to take my work…” Anger flares in her at the thought of some faceless thief trying to make off with her sword.

He nods. “I understand.”

The caravan hits the valley floor.

Lush, twisted trees become more and more common and then within minutes, they’re inside the Vildenwald.

Roots plunge out of the path, the grass recedes to stone and moss and other lichen. The path is still clear though. Branches have been removed from the way, a well-worn dirt road leading forward from frequent travel, and there are clear signs of large rocks having been dragged to the sides.

“The Faebower,” Marshall Ulgo says as the canopy envelopes the sky, leaving only thin cracks of moonlight shining through. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Oh it’s beautiful alright. In Gimrizh’s opinion however, a more appropriate word would be ‘eerie’. The further they move into the forest, the thicker the trees around them become, the denser the branches, as if the leaves themselves are turning a darker green. Even with all the bright torches lighting their way, an unnatural gloom seems to permeate every inch of the forest.

And it’s strangely still. Noises of animals and wind - birds chirping, a night owl’s hoot - it’s difficult to tell which direction a sound comes from. From the uneasy murmurs of the people behind them, she’s not the only one unsettled by the forest.

She tightens her grip on the cloth wrapped around her torch.

Her nerves are slightly assuaged when they pass a milestone that’s been etched with angelic protection spells. She doesn’t know much about stonework or such magics to tell exactly what effects it has on the forest, but it probably helps guide travelers through the treacherous paths of the Vildenwald.

One of the group, a clergyman in white robes, stops to offer a brief prayer. He kneels by the stone for a minute, marking the six-pointed star on his chest with a finger before moving on.

“How often do you take this pass?” Gimrizh asks.

Marshall Ulgo shrugs, gently brushing a hand over his horse’s mane. “Oh, many times a year. I tend to circle around south for awhile before making another trip north. There’s a number of Marshalls that make the trip through the Vildenwald - I’m hardly the only guide around these parts.”

Without her being aware of it, she finds her thoughts drifting to the northern parishes. Which one of them is Malavai from? As he travels north tonight, where will his final destination be? “How far north have you been?”

“Savis. Never been further than that - it’s mostly just snow and ice covered mountains from there on out. There’s a number of howlpacks in the north forests - I’m often called on to escort a larger party through safely.”

She shouldn’t ask. She does anyway. “And vampires?”

Ulgo’s frown is a heavy-set sag of his features. “Oh yes, there’s vampires in the North. Vampires are everywhere, Miss. Most up there tend to haunt their remote manors - it’s worse in the East. That’s where the really vicious bastards are. I had a run-in with a vampire from the East two years ago - Tarisan bloodline, they’re _nasty_. She killed two of my fellow Marshalls and left a series of scars on my back before the lot of us could drive a stake through her.”

Gimrizh flinches. Heaven above, she got lucky with Malavai. He hadn’t been nice to her, not exactly, but he’d been clever, interesting - he’d been just the right amount of danger for her. Even after a lovely evening with him, she’s under no delusions about the sort of creature he is. She’s perfectly aware that if they had met under less favorable circumstances, he’d likely have had no issues with taking her life.

After a half hour of walking, the caravan stops in a small clearing for a short break, just a few minutes to water the horses from a creek that runs through the forest.

Then they’re back on the road.

The same clergyman who stopped and prayed earlier offers Gimrizh a water pouch which she then offers to the Marshall. She doesn’t trust anyone here any more or less than she trusted the guests at Mancer Vette’s party. Her own skien full of water sits in her bag. If she needs to drink, she’ll do so from a safe source.

Perhaps calling the Marshall paranoid was a bit hypocritical of her.

As the wagons roll across the forest floor, this time she asks Ulgo a different question. “What do you think of High Marshall Andaran Thul?”

“You don’t see many old Marshalls as a rule, Miss,” Ulgo replies bitterly. “We serve till death - the High Marshall leaves a bad taste in my mouth, sitting in his rich home and calling himself a leader.”

“He must have been good though, to get promoted.”

“Oh sure. During his prime he was amazing. I once saw him and the former High Marshall - Elara - deal with an entire drownyard full of the dead along Vaiken Coast. Of course, that was a good decade ago and Elara died in the South to gheist possession shortly after.” He sighs, an almost reverent look on his face, as if he’s a priest during sermon. “No one was ever quite as good as Elara.”

“I remember hearing about her,” Gimrizh muses. “She wiped out one of the vampire bloodlines singlehanded, didn't she?”

Ulgo nods proudly. “Hunted down every single Willsaam and put them to the stake. That clan won't be terrorizing the West ever again.”

“How did she do it?”

“She was married to a winemaker. When she became High Marshall, her husband turned a plot of their land into rowan trees. Elara would carry the saplings around in her wagon when she went hunting, so that she'd never worry about the wood in her stakes dying. She just cut new ones for each vampire she came across.”

The only problem with rowan. Like all living things, the wood doesn't live long after it's been cut and carved, and dead wood does nothing to a creature of the night. Gimrizh’s solution had been to carve her sword hilt and then take it to Mancer Vette the very next day. It might be arrogant of her to say, but she prefers her solution to Elara’s. As expensive as a Mancer’s work can be, it’s effective.

She personally didn’t pay a single penny to get her rowan hilt preserved - material costs are always paid by the client - and that hilt will last for about three years before it needs replacement.

They trek deeper into the Vildenwald. Last time Gimrizh made this journey she hadn’t felt nearly so uneasy.

It could be her imagination but it feels as though they aren’t alone. The thickness of the forest begins to feel suffocating, a cold wet mist rolling across the ground, soaking into her trousers and making her chill to her bones. While the mist does nothing to obscure the lines of the Faebower, it coats the ground beneath their feet, hiding stones and tree roots that sneak out to trip them up.

She can’t help but think that they haven’t seen a protection milestone since the one at the edge of the forest.

It’s been long enough.

They should have come across another one by now.

Then the horses start to get skittish. It’s near silent in the forest, any animal noises extinguishing into the depths of the Vildenwald. A couple of the wagon horses start to whiny, tugging at the reins, pawing at the ground nervously.

Ulgo pats his mare’s neck, trying to sooth the animal. “Best keep close, Miss. Remember those stupid bandits you were trying to convince me wouldn’t attack?” He raises his voice to the rest of the caravan behind them, “Keep together and keep moving forward!”

Any bandits that would attack a caravan of this size in the middle of the night deserve whatever’s coming to them. Gimrizh refuses to let herself be afraid.

They continue on.

Dark shapes flit through the trees, just far enough out of sight to be formless, just hard enough to spot that they could be nothing more than shadow. Her heart begins to tighten even as she forces her footsteps to remain even and steady. What she’s seeing can’t be an illusion. It’s too quiet for there to be nothing creeping around them.

There’s the crack of a branch breaking - just one, as if done on purpose to scare the caravan.

If they were bandits, wouldn’t they need light to see by? Wouldn’t their caravan be able to see the burn of torches through the branches?

At her shoulder, Ulgo quietly draws his sword. “The rear guards are skilled, Miss. When the bandits attack, they’ll counter as the main group runs. When those criminals realize anything of value is too far to chase, they’ll fall back.”

And if they’re not bandits? No, she tells herself. It’s bandits.

The moon isn’t full - it can’t be a howlpack. The only vampires in the area are heading in the opposite direction. Ghiests don’t make noise - they can’t snap branches. If a necro-alchemist was in the area there would have been reports of such activity, and there aren’t any graveyards for a ghoulcaller to draw from anywhere near the Vildenwald. So bandits. It has to be. Just stupid, greedy humans who’s empty wallets outweigh their common sense.

So why is she still shivering?

Something flashes in the darkness - _was that gold_? Did she see gold?

It feels like a bucket of ice is dropped on her shoulders. Malavai never said he was returning north. She’d assumed if he had a large shipment - and she’s not stupid enough to think that it was anything besides jugs of preserved blood - he and his associates would have returned to whatever northern manor they came from. That they would have taken their purchase home. If they were delivering it somewhere else -

That doesn’t make sense and yet - Malavai didn’t _say_ he was returning north, he didn’t _specify_ that, she’d just _assumed_ -

“ _HELP_ \- !”

The aborted scream comes from the back of the caravan. Gimrizh whips her head around fast enough to crack her neck just in time to see one of the rear guards get dragged into the bushes by -

“ _Vampires_!” Ulgo gasps. “Stay together - !”

A man, open mouth full of fangs, leaps from the trees like a wild animal, tackling Ulgo around the waist and throwing him off his horse.

Panic descends.

Screams erupt from every direction. The horses break free of their restraints, bolting off into the woods. Everyone in the caravan flees - into the bushes, running down the Faebower, chasing their horses.

When the gentry goes hunting, they send servants into the woods. The servants hit the bushes with sticks, scaring the game into a frenzy, making the prey run out, straight into the sight of the hunters. Ulgo kept insisting that they stay together - they paint a more difficult target when they’re grouped up -

They’re being spooked like common prey.

 _Oh fuck_ \- a scream dies in Gimrizh’s throat as fear digs its claws into her.

On the ground, Ulgo presses his holy star into his attacker’s face. The vampire recoils, screeching in pain from the burn upon his forehead and Ulgo has enough time to get to his feet and pull a stake from his belt. It’s over so fast - one moment Ulgo is down, the next he’s plunged the wood through the vampire’s chest and killed him.

Gimrizh throws her torch onto the dead creature, letting it catch and send a pyre up through the night.

But he isn’t alone.

A white-faced woman stalks toward them, dropping the dead and bleeding body of a merchant to the ground. Blood is streaked across her mouth - she leaps at Ulgo.

From the darkness, a hand hits Gimrizh across the back.

She didn’t even _see_ \- she falls into the dirt - she _can’t_ \- she can’t get up. Her bags tumble over the path beneath her, her hat tears on a tree root - her _sword_ -

Her assailant bares his fangs at her. Terror that isn’t her own rushes through her, the counterpart to Malavai’s easy seductive charms. Was this, this imposed panic, what she was feeling earlier, the fear that seemed to radiate through the Vildenwald? And the silence - of course.

Ulgo throws aside the woman he’d been fighting, her shrieks piercing through the screams of the rest of the caravan as she dies.

“Get behind me!” he yells. Sword in one hand, stake in the other, he faces down the vampire.

Simple steel won’t do the trick - the vampire just laughs as Ulgo’s sword slashes a bloody line across his chest. Clawed hands rip the Marshall’s blade asunder. The steel lands ten feet away in the bushes.

Gimrizh’s fingers fumble with the straps around her sword case.

Why did she have to wrap the stupid thing with leather - she can’t reach it quick enough - finally the leather gets pushed to the side.

Ulgo lunges forward with his stake in hand. It’s not fast enough, the vampire steps to the side, grabbing Ulgo’s wrist easily and - _crack_. The Marshall screams in pain as his wrist gets snapped like a twig. The wooden stake slips from his fingers. It’s out of reach, he’s still pinned in place by the vampire, he won’t be able to get to it in time.

She can see the whites of his terrified eyes as the vampire sinks his teeth into Ulgo’s throat.

Oh fuck - _fuck_ -

Her hands slip over the cloth wrapping and then she’s got the sword in her grasp, a handle that she carved to perfectly fit her grip, a weight that she knows in her heart, a blade that she now has to trust with her life. How good is she _really_? How well does she know her craft? She can boast all she wants about making weapons designed to kill vampires and other monsters - now she’s got to test her own work.

White fangs blur in her vision as the vampire drops Ulgo’s corpse and steps towards her - she rips the sword from the scabbard and _swings_.

The steel meets no resistance as it cleaves the vampire’s head from his body.

If she didn’t know better, she’d say there’s surprise in his golden eyes as his head hits the ground.

Unsteadily, her entire body shaking, she gets to her feet. Carnage is all around her. Bodies litter what remains of the caravan after half the people have fled. Some corpses lie over the wagons, most of them being fed on by a hungry vampire. A handful of humans remain alive. The lucky or the skilled, wielding axes and spears to keep the attackers at bay. None were prepared enough to bring a stake.

They won’t last long. Neither will she.

With a handful of dirt and grass, she wipes the dead vampire’s blood from her sword and slides it back into its sheath. The silver is too bright, it’ll shine in the moonlight and make her visible to anyone looking.

The dead Marshall Ulgo was right. Everyone here, including herself, is only going to look out for their own lives.

Without a second thought she abandons the rest of the caravan and runs.

She leaves everything except her sword, none of it is valuable enough for the time it’d take to grab, and the weight of it would slow her down. Vampires block the Faebower, but she trusts in her sense of direction enough to know that if she runs through the uncharted area of the Vildenwald she’ll still be able to find her way south.

Blood rushes through her ears as she races through the forest. Her feet tear up the bushes, nothing important to her beyond the knowledge that her only chance is to run away as fast as she can.

Speed is her only hope - she doesn’t have a chance at silence.

A man with glowing golden eyes comes at her from the right and she’s forced to run to the left, unwilling to stop and fight at the risk of being overpowered by multiple attackers. As Malavai had so casually proved to her earlier this evening, she can’t beat a vampire’s sheer strength.

Her heart is pounding, she struggles to draw breath - If she just keeps running -

Within minutes there’s another pursuer chasing her from the left.

She’s being herded.

The trees part and she’s stumbling into a clearing, bright warm lights startling her eyes after the darkness of the forest - but the group she’s come across isn’t human.

Regally dressed vampires astride pitch black horses turn to stare at her as she crashes into the open. Some of them are distracted, a couple are feeding on a less fortunate man that’s still pointlessly screaming. She gags at the sight. There must be at least fifty vampires as part of the procession, maybe closer to a hundred. The light she’d seen was the glow of elegant glass lanterns affixed to resplendent carriages and carts.

A few armored vampire knights turn their spears on her - she spins on her heels - the two that had been chasing her are right there -

“Stay back!” The scream rips from her throat. She holds up her sword, still in its scabbard, the sweat on her fingers threatening to make the lacquered wooden sheath fall from her grip. “I’m warning you!”

They - they’re _laughing_.

She slowly turns around in a circle. They haven’t moved closer to her, still keeping distance of a good dozen feet. There must be a way out, someplace where there are fewer guards, some sort of opening for her to exploit.

Her yell has attracted the attention of some of the nobles. One, a red haired young man wearing a velvet cape, strides towards her. The guards easily let him pass. There’s a sword on his hip but he’s not even paying attention to it. He doesn’t think he’ll need it to deal with her, he thinks she’s going to die easily. How dare her think so little of her.

A few others have been drawn over -

Malavai.

Firelight flickers over his icy features. He’s without his glamor, staring at her with shock in his eyes. Shit. She’d been perfectly content with never seeing him again, with parting ways after a night of fun. She should have known he’d be here, but it’s still enough to make her heart skip a beat. Whatever - he’s too far away to be the most important threat right now. She can’t let him distract her.

“Stay. _Back_.” Gimrizh grits out through her teeth, turning her attention back to the man approaching her.

He laughs at her. “Oh, this one’s funny.”

_This one’s going to fucking kill you._

Anger and terror run through her in equal parts, making her heart race and setting fire through her veins. Battlelust, fear, whatever it is, it wants to rip off heads if she has to in order to get to safety.

“Let me go,” she spits at him.

“We’ve got most of your group already, I think we’d prefer to take the complete set.” He keeps getting closer - one step - another -

He puts his hand on her shoulder.

Before she can question the move, she slams her blade, hilt first, into his right eye.

Claws scratch her shoulder as he stumbles backwards, more out of surprise than pain at first, as if stunned that a human had the audacity to strike him. Then the silver and rowan come into effect.

He clutches his ruined eye and _screams_.

Good.

“Lord Draagh!” One of the guards scrambles to help him.

Another one of the reavers who chased her through the woods rushes towards her.

She spins around as he jumps, like an animal, claws out. Automatically, her brain tells her what to do. Her thumb flicks against the guard, releasing the blade and revealing a flash of the silver that runs through her weapon. She doesn’t so much draw the blade as throw the scabbard desperately to the side.

The vampire falls on her sword, the blade sliding deep into his chest.

He coughs red blood onto her shirt as he dies. Before anyone around her has the chance to react, she pulls the sword from his heart and brandishes it wildly in front of her. Even stained with blood, the silver shines in the moonlight.

“I said,” she repeats, rage rushing through her voice to cover the fear. Her hands are shaking and she grips the blade even tighter until her knuckles are a pale white. “ _Stay the fuck back_. Or I’ll kill you. I already took out one of your friends in the woods - that’s two. Do any of you really want to be the third?”

She’s facing down more vampires than she can count and she hopes to heaven that they don’t just rush her.

The vampires circling her don’t look afraid, but they do wait. Not on her though.

“She’ll do.” The voice belongs to an older man - how old was he when he was turned? Vampire are supposedly ageless. He’s stepping out of one of the richer carriages, his hands covered with rings that sparkle under the torches. “She seems just the type - Vowrawn will find her hilarious, I’m sure.” He snaps his fingers at Malavai, “Take her.”

Malavai bows deeply, “Yes, Lord Baras. Right away.”

Oh, she’ll show them hilarious.

She raises her sword and lowers her knees, an opening stance that’s as familiar to her as breathing. There’s no hope of finding calm now so instead she just embraces the rush of terror and rage flowing through her. Lets it seep into her muscles and bones until it’s radiating through every inch of her. She glares straight at Malavai, unwavering even as she wants desperately to flee.

Malavai calmly walks toward her, sparing not even a glance for Draagh who’s clutching his eye on the ground. He draws a thin, beautiful rapier with a point fine enough to pierce Gimrizh’s heart even through her leathers. That veneer of calm is still painted over his face as he circles her. One hand behind his back, the point of his sword low to the ground - at least he’s treating her like a legitimate threat. Perhaps he learned from Draagh’s mistake.

“That sword…” he asks, eyes trailing over her stance in a revolting mockery of their earlier encounter. Then he had meant to flatter. Now it’s just to pick apart her weaknesses. “I take it that was what you retrieved from Mancer Vette.”

“At least it’s not a fucking shipment of preserved blood,” she snarls. “And don’t get the wrong idea, this _isn’t_ Vette’s work - I made this entire damned weapon - the only thing Vette did was preserve the rowan that I’m going to shove through your _fucking skull_.”

He almost looks taken aback - and then the expression vanished from his face completely.

Flipping her blade around, she rushes him.

He’s fast - faster than she’d thought. A flash of steel is her only warning as he elegantly steps into her attack, bringing his rapier up to pierce her chest. It’s enough of a warning. She turns her run into a slide, skidding under his sword. Low to the ground, she slashes her sword at the backs of his knees, hoping to cripple him.

With a quick, neat flick, he snaps his blade back to block hers, a clang of metal on metal as they collide.

She has to throw herself to the side to avoid his next downward strike. Her knees scrape across the dirt as she rolls and comes up into a low crouch. With her free hand, she grabs the small knife tucked into her belt and throws it at him. It flings through the air true as day - she doesn’t make unbalanced weapons.

For a second she thinks it’ll connect - then he just tilts his head to the side and it goes flying past him.

The blade hits a carriage, quivering as it’s embedded in the wood. It missed a woman’s head by scant inches. The vampire’s elaborate hairdo lost a few strands but she doesn’t look worried in the least. Instead she’s - she’s clapping.

Fucking _clapping._

Like Gimrizh is a pet performing a particularly impressive trick.

She throws herself at Malavai with a scream, stabbing straight at his head, vibrations rippling through the metal as he deflects the blow with his rapier. Momentum throws her past him and then he’s slashing right through her defenses. The tip of his blade barely brushes over her chest as she jumps back just in time. She twists her sword around in her hand, bringing it up to block his follow up strike.

He plays safely, striking only when it’s not-lethal, as though he doesn’t want to kill her. Hurt her, certainly, but not kill.

If he’s expecting her to tire, he’ll be sorely disappointed.

Every hit, every collision of their weapons sends shockwaves running up her arms. It’s almost comforting, the same feeling as striking a hot billet of steel repeatedly. The sort of stress she’s dealt with for years.

She drops to one knee, sword held in a high guard above her head to block. When he brings his blade down she flings the blow away with all her strength. Then she rolls to her feet, striking up, a quick slash that she’s hoping will get through while his sword tip is thrown to the side. He’s stronger than her but she’s counting on just getting one hit in. That’s all she needs.

The way his wrist bends is near impossible as he slides through her attack, rapier circling around her blade. She has enough time to bring her crossguard up to catch his blade before it cuts her.

This is bad - all he needs to do it push -

He tips his handle up, blade down - cuts around her - pain flares through her hand. Within one neat second her sword is ripped from her grasp.

Oh shit.

If she can’t hurt him - then she’s dead. She makes to run for her fallen weapon - not quick enough.

Malavai flips his rapier in his hand and slams the dull hilt into her stomach. Air is shoved from her lungs, agony screams in her chest. White flashes in her vision. He throws her body off his sword, sending her crashing to the ground five feet away.

No, _damn it,_ no!

As she pushes herself out of the dirt, she grabs both knives from her boots, one in each hand. It isn’t as though she can win this fight, but if she can still get away -

Malavai brings his boot down on her wrist.

A scream of pain wrenches its way out of her throat as he grinds her hand into the ground, breaking her grip on the dagger. She swings out with the second one, stabbing straight through his ankle - he grabs it out of her hand before she can make the strike hit. His clawed thumb digs into her pulse point, forcing her fingers to spasm - her second knife falls too.

“That’s enough,” he tells her firmly.

This isn’t how she dies - she doesn’t fail here - she needs to think - there must be some way out of this -

One of the guards picks up her fallen sword. _Her_ sword.

The man offers the blade to the lord who ordered her death, wrapping the hilt in cloth so as not to hurt the old man. “Lord Baras. The woman’s weapon, if it pleases you.”

Baras’s bejeweled fingers clasp the hilt -

“That’s _my fucking sword_!”

Gimrizh rips her hand out from under Malavai’s boot, ignoring him completely, ignoring everything except for the fact that some rich fucking vampire is holding the best fucking piece she’s ever made in her life - that’s hers _how dare_ he hold it -

A guard buries his fist in her gut before she can so much as try to get close to Baras. Iron floods her mouth and she forces herself not to spit out the blood - the last thing she wants is any of them getting hungry. Hands grab her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back - a foot slams into her knee, forcing a cry from her and bringing her to the ground -

She snarls, all the rage of a captured animal burning in her.

This isn’t how she dies!

She screams and howls, clawing at the vampires that hold her and press her into the dirt, trying to kick and punch without skill, just wild fury. Her head twists to the side and she opens her jaw, sinking her teeth into an attacker’s arm until blood bursts in her mouth - how do they like it when it’s turned against them -

“Gimrizh.” Malavai’s standing in front of her, staring down with cold eyes, “It’ll be best if you stop fighting.”

“ _Fuck you_!” She screams, spitting the mouthful of blood at him, both her own and the man who’s currently holding her down.

He grips his blade in a reverse hold, “Very well.”

The pommel of his sword flashes towards her head - she can’t move out of the way - everything goes dark.

~*~

Warm lights blur in front of her.

There’s a throbbing pain in her temples, an ache in her hands - what - ?

Gimrizh forces her eyes open, struggling to take in her surroundings. She’d been in the Vildenwald - the caravan ambush - Malavai. There’s something tight around her chest - did the blow to her stomach cause - wait. How is she still alive? They’d beaten her, she had no way out, she should have been killed in the forest.

The first thing her eyes can focus on are her hands.

She’s sitting upright, and there’s a couple of elaborate rings on her fingers, rings that she’s never seen before in her life. White lace falls over her hands, attached to burgundy sleeves in a rich silk. The tightness - a corset. She’s wearing a dress. Why is she wearing a dress? She didn’t put one on.

And then she sees the rest of the room.

It’s a banquet hall. A massive banquet hall, a ribbed vaulted ceiling, candles practically dripping off chandeliers. A glass ceiling shines the night sky down into the hall. She’s at the head table, she must be - the room is filled with people - not people at all - vampires.

Why in heaven’s name is she inside a vampire manor?

 _Don’t panic,_ she tells herself firmly.

“Oh!” an excited voice next to her declares, “She’s awake!”

A cheer goes out through the hall. Gimrizh blearily blinks and turns to look at the speaker. He’s tall and reedy, dressed in lush purple and black. Gold jewelry pierces his face, a band wrapped around his goatee, more gold hanging from his ears. Thick dark circles sit under his eyes but there’s a grin on his lips that gives her the impression he’s not entirely sane.

“Who…” she trails off, not even sure where to begin asking questions.

The man raises a goblet - full of blood, a red so deep it’s almost black. “To Gimrizh Korribanil! The Queen of the Vampires!”

Shouts of excitement ring out, vampires cheer and clap, some are laughing.

It’s a _show_. A show where she’s somehow the star and she has no idea what on earth is going on. She’d run but she wouldn’t even know where to run to. And in a room full of predators - it would be pointless. Fear sends her heart racing even as her mind can’t begin to comprehend what’s happening around her. She’s still trying to wrap her head around why she didn’t die in the Vildenwald.

The man at her side offers her a goblet, this one full of wine. “A queen should give a toast at her own party.”

“I’m not a queen,” she replies. “Who the hell are you?”

“Lord Vowrawn, at your service, majesty.”

“Don’t call me that. What’s going on?”

“Oh, every year we pick one lucky human to host this little party. It’s a tremendous honor, three days of feasting and dancing, and you’ll have all the finest things to eat and to wear, and you’ll meet all the most important people -”

“And after three days.” Gimrizh can barely hear herself - can barely hear anything over the roar of blood in her veins. “Then what?”

Vowrawn grins at her, “Then you’re the feast! Don’t worry about it - just have fun!”

It’s like her stomach is kicked out from her chest. They’re going to kill her. They’re going to taunt her for three fucking days and then drink her blood and she can’t - _don’t panic_ \- she can’t stop them.

What can she do? There has to be something - she doesn’t want to die. Not here, not to these bastards, not ever. _Don’t panic_ , she tells herself again, _just don’t panic_. She has to try and think of something, some clever way out, some way to trick them into letting her go. They’re not infallible, there must be something. But there’s so many of them, even if she fools one, she can’t fool them all.

 _Don’t panic, don’t panic_ -

She’s going to die and she can’t stop it -

 _Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t_ -

 

 


	2. Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end of Gimrizh's life.

~*~

A tall woman with heavy red makeup caresses Gimrizh’s cheek with her sharp claws, “Oh, she’s an adorable thing, isn’t she?”

“Don’t get too close.” Baras stands nearby, part of the crowd of vampires trying to get a better look at Gimrizh. Some of them are just chatting in the background, some have bowed to her in false and overly theatrical supplication, snickering all the while as their friends goad them on, all wanting to play with the new human. Almost all of them have remarked on how they hope she will taste.

She’s been here for hours now. They’re all the same.

Baras seems indifferent, but this new woman is thrilled to pet Gimrizh. “She killed two of my men and took Draagh’s eye while we captured her.” That bit is said quieter, for only the woman to hear.

No one cares if Gimrizh hears.

“Poor Draagh,” the woman says. “I was wondering why I haven’t seen him yet. Is he pouting in his chambers? Did her _majesty_ wound his pride?”

The claws on Gimrizh’s cheek dig into her skin.

She leans down to get a closer look at Gimrizh, dragging her claws until she has one finger lifting Gimrizh’s chin up.

“Careful Ekkage,” Baras warns. “She might bite.”

A name, at last. Ekkage looks at Gimrizh with lidded eyes, her lips ever so slightly parted as if she wants to sink her teeth into Gimrizh. “Tell me, highness, what did you do to my dear nephew, Draagh?”

Baras scoffs, losing interest, “Don’t bother. Thing hasn’t spoken a word since she got here.” He puts his hand on the sword at his waist - a gloved hand. Anyone with eyes can see that he wouldn’t be able to touch any part of the weapon with an uncovered hand. “She used this _thing_ \- shoved the rowan through Draagh’s eye. He was an idiot to allow a human to harm him so permanently.”

Deep inside Gimrizh, under the layers of frozen panic, spite flares. She’s terrified, she can’t move a finger even if she tried, not on her own, she can barely breathe. But rage - oh all it takes is that little possessive tap of Baras’s hand on the sword - _her_ sword.

He took her sword, he took her dignity, she refuses to let him take her life too.

“Lord Baras! Lady Ekkage!” It’s Vowrawn again, the strange social butterfly fluttering back to the center of the party. Gimrizh despises him on principle. He might be a bit off his rocker, but he has no problem with laughing at her now and eating her later. “My dear friends, it’s so good to see the both of you again - we really must get together more often. Once Lord Marr arrives it will truly be a party, won't it?”

“If you truly believe Marr would accept such an offer -” Baras starts.

“Now, now,” Ekkage cuts him off, “Vowrawn was only joking.” She turns back to Vowrawn, “My brother was wondering if you enjoyed his pick this year?”

His pick. Gimrizh. She’s a pick. She doesn’t want to hear Vowrawn’s reply. She don’t want him to get to speak his thoughts about her worth or her value - he doesn’t deserve to have such control over -

Somehow, her body moves. “Lord Vowrawn.” She’s on her feet. Her voice is flat, dead, just as dead as she’ll be in only a few days. “I am going to retire for the evening.”

“Oh,” Ekkage remarks, raising an eyebrow, “Would you look at that. She speaks.”

Vowrawn looks thrilled. “Of course! Whatever you wish, your highness. Let me get someone to show you to your rooms.” He snaps his fingers at one of the guards standing by the edges of the banquet hall, summoning over a stocky vampire clad in gold and purple armor. “Qet, dear, please show the Queen to her chambers.”

The guard, Qet, gives her a short bow before gesturing to one of the many hallways off the massive center hall, “This way, majesty.”

Her escort is stoic as he guides her through the twisting maze of the manor. It suits her just fine, she has no desire to speak with him either. If she had her sword on her, she’d like nothing better than a short chat followed by her sword severing his head from his shoulders. She’d kill anyone here if it would give her a shot at escaping. They’re all culpable - if someone needs to die in order for her to live, that’s a fair trade.

As they make their way through the manor, she tries to counter her steps and make a map in her head.

This place is confusing, but it’s easy enough since she’s predominantly being led upwards. Qet takes her up ten flights of stairs until she’s pretty sure they’re on one of the highest floors above the banquet hall that they’d just vacated. From what she’s seen, she knows that there must be a number of other wings of the manor, it’s just too tall for it to not be wider as well. It’s not ideal that they’re keeping her near the heart of the building. No matter which way she goes from here, escape will be made all the more difficult. It also means wherever her rooms are, they won’t have windows and that, as traditional as it is, is the first escape idea that comes to mind.

She doesn’t want to speak to Qet but she has to admit that there are a couple of questions chewing away at her mind. “Who is Lord Vowrawn?”

There’s a widening of Qet’s eyes - the only sign that he’s surprised she spoke to him. “Lord Vowrawn is the sovereign leader of the Southern bloodlines. The borders of your human parishes are irrelevant, our lands are determined by the territory claimed by different bloodlines and then the High Lords those bloodlines are sworn to.”

“And Baras? Ekkage? Who are they?”

“Lord Baras is the same as Lord Vowrawn, only to the North instead of the South. Lady Ekkage to the West. If you wish to know, Lord Marr controls the East.”

She remembers a mention of Marr. “Are Baras and Ekkage siblings?”

Ah - a frown on Qet’s lips. “Yes, majesty. They have the same sire. It’s not quite the same as human siblings, but it has similar importance.”

“Then why are they in charge of two separate regions? Are they related to Vowrawn and Marr as well? Is there some central ruling family?” Is there an actual king or queen that Gimrizh is theatrically usurping? And more importantly, is there one key figure that she could, through force or trickery, take down to secure her escape?

“Lord Baras installed his sister as ruler after his Western Campaign.” Qet almost looks uncomfortable as he informs her of this. He clears his throat and points to the ornate set of double doors they’ve stopped in front of. “Your chambers, highness. I’ll send up your lady in waiting shortly.”

The thought of a vampire hanging around her constantly makes Gimrizh blanche. “No. I don’t need anyone.”

“No offense, highness,” Qet says softly, “but you can’t get out of that dress on your own.”

That’s… regrettably a good point. She opens the door and steps inside, Qet remaining outside with his spear in hand. So he’s to be her guard then. Even if she’s forced to have a lady trailing behind her, she needs a guard too.

A series of sprawling rooms greets her. A sitting room, a bedroom behind it, a bathroom behind a set of doors, and everything covered in red velvet and plush carpeting and marble and fucking _gold chandeliers_. Gimrizh could scavenge enough raw materials from this damn place to fund her shop for years. Instead it’s being wasted in some horrible vampire’s mansion, housing a sacrificial lamb once a year before a slaughter.

She trails her fingers across the back of a loveseat, rich red velvet over an elaborately carved frame of dark wood. This is the sort of finery she’s used to seeing at the Mancer’s parties, not in a room she’s expected to live in.

Alone, finally, she allows herself two minutes.

Two minutes to panic and cry and breakdown without anyone seeing. Two minutes to let the terror building inside her out without a vampire laughing at her.

Then she wipes her tears off with her hands and starts to figure out how to save herself.

It’s the mantle that draws her eye. Not for the way it drips opulence, but because she has a fireplace. They climbed ten floors to get here, how high up is she? How close to the top of the manor, how short is the chimney? There must be one, even if vampires cannot die of asphyxiation, surely they find the smell and smoke unpleasant.

She gets down on her knees. The grate is difficult to remove with just her fingers, black ash rubbing off on her skin as she sets it to the side and sticks her head into the fireplace.

Maybe a square foot wide.

Even if she squeezed, her shoulders would never fit. Damn it to hell. It was probably a stupid idea anyway. How many humans have tried to escape? The fact that she’s got both a guard outside and now a security lady in waiting means constant oversight - how have humans in the past tried to escape? Have any of them worked? What options will be expected of her, what are they prepared for?

“Excuse me, your highness.”

Gimrizh only barely avoids banging her head against the brick. She gets to her feet and dusts her skirts off, looking as dignified as she can for someone who just had their head in the coals.

The intruder is a young woman, soft brown hair and skin tinged with that bloodless look of all vampires. Gimrizh’s new lady in waiting, presumably. She wonders which poor woman they got to assist a human.

The woman gives a dainty curtsey, “I’m Jaesa Willsaam, your lady in waiting.”

“Oh?” That last name, didn’t Ulgo say something about Willsaams? “Which of them forced you into this? Lord Vowrawn?”

“Lord Baras,” she replies, before looking embarrassed, “He has that right, highness. May I assist you in removing your gown? Or drawing you a bath?”

It occurs to Gimrizh that if she’s stuck with this woman for potentially the rest of her short life, she’d best serve her time by getting to know her. The more she knows about this Jaesa, the better she can use her to facilitate an escape. “It’s insulting, isn’t it? Most ladies in waiting don’t have to help with such tasks, but you - and you’re forced to serve a human as well. A false queen who you fully intend on eating in a few days. What did you do to Baras to garner such a disgraceful punishment?”

Jaesa flares with shame and anger, “That’s hardly -” She bites her tongue and takes a deep breath. “May I assist you in preparing for bed, highness?”

“No actually, I have no intentions of sleeping. Instead I would like a tour of the manor. No better time than while all the fancy lords and ladies are enjoying a party thrown in my honor, wouldn’t you say?”

“But -”

“What’s the harm?”

Another curtsey, this time with more redness in the face. “Yes, of course.”

Gimrizh has three days. She can sleep when she’s dead.

Right now her highest priority has to be coming up with an escape plan and for that she requires far more information than she currently has. She needs to know who the players are, where they are, and the layout of her surroundings.

While she’s relatively certain that they won’t kill her before her three days are up for fear of spoiling the party, her escape attempts will be limited. Theoretically she could just keep trying until something works. Realistically every time she is caught will reduce her opportunities. More bodyguards perhaps, or relocating her to a section of the manor she knows less about. Trying one method and failing will likely prevent her from being able to try that same method again, which means she needs more than just one good plan, she needs many.

Qet follows the two of them as Jaesa leads her through the manor. Of course, she can’t expect to shake her bodyguard just yet.

As a tour guide, Jaesa is banal and ultimately useless.

It’s probably not her fault. She doesn’t know what Gimrizh is looking for. Gimrizh makes an off-hand comment about windows in the hopes of finding out which direction is closest to the outside and it sends the poor woman off on a long and boring speech about how many hundreds of years old the stained glass in the banquet hall is - the entire thing sounded like it had been drilled into her skull like a teacher instructs students on mathematics.

“Nevermind about this,” Gimrizh finally says, “Is there a library, or a study, or something?”

Jaesa trails off in the middle of her speech and thinks, “W-well Lord Vowrawn’s library is the largest in - “

“Take me there.”

She glances questioningly at Qet.

He just shrugs. “Does it matter?”

 _That’s right_ , Gimrizh thinks, _let the dead woman see your secrets_.

They take her without further argument. As they skirt around the center of the mansion, the sounds of partying echo through the walls, everyone enjoying the promise of laughing at and eventually killing Gimrizh. That mix of panic and hatred flares up inside Gimrizh, a familiar combination to her now. She doesn’t know if she can beat any of them and yet she desperately wants to grind every single one of them into the ground.

Vowrawn’s library is beautiful. Undeniably so.

As much as Gimrizh hates to admire a thing owned by such a horrible man, she has to acknowledge its splendor. It’s larger than any library she’s ever seen, shelves upon shelves stacked to the ceiling with books. Perfect.

“Where are the maps?” Gimrizh asks, surveying the corridors of shelving.

“I -” Jaesa looks around desperately, “I don’t know? Majesty, I’ve only been to Lord Vowrawn’s estates once before - I might know the history of this building but I hardly know the layout of one of the Lord’s most… excessive obsessions.”

Ah yes, if Jaesa works for Baras, then she must be from the North. Given how Gimrizh’s caravan was intercepted by Malavai’s group, they must both have been going the same direction - namely, across the Southern border. So they’re in the South now. But Qet - Vowrawn had been the one that picked him as Gimrizh’s escort, which means he works for Vowrawn.

Gimrizh turns to her bodyguard, “Qet, then. Where are the maps?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d say he’s surprised that she’s speaking to her. He points to the a series of shelves on the right, “Over there, highness.”

She nods, “Thank you.” When Jaesa makes to follow her, she waves her off, “I understand that you can’t let me wander about the manor unsupervised, but I would prefer privacy right now. I’ll be here for some time - Jaesa, you’re dismissed. Qet can remain, so long as he stays by the door. I hope that’ll satisfy the requirement of keeping me under lock and key?”

“Very well,” Jaesa says with a reluctant curtsey.

Without anyone at her shoulder, Gimrizh makes her way through the shelves towards the area Qet had indicated.

Fewer books are stacked here, instead there are scrolls upon scrolls shoved into the bookcases, some clean and new, some yellowed and ready to fall apart. A few are kept under glass upon pedestals, so old that even the touch of fingertips or a breath of air might turn them into dust.

None of those hold any interest to Gimrizh - they’re maps of territories but none of them are current enough to account for any of the barony changes in the past two hundred years. One doesn’t even have Luthow on it.

What she’s looking for is found in one of the few books that litter this section of the library. It contains centuries worth of staff information, some of Vowrawn’s financials, and most importantly, maps of the manor. Many maps, which means that whoever keeps this book actually bothers to record changes as they’re made. Finally, something that’s up to date and not a thousand years old.

The manor appears to be in roughly a T-formation, with the main banquet hall in the center, as well as her chambers. Below that are the kitchens and dungeons and an area marked as ‘ _livestock (human)_ ’ that she tries not to think too hard about. The longest arm of the manor stretches to the south, where most of the permanent residence chambers are located, including servant quarters, storage rooms, and armories.

She’s guessing from the records kept here that each delegation is assigned an area based on their geographic domain. Marr to the east wing, Ekkage to the west, and Baras to the north. That last one almost seems insulting, given that the northern wing is the smallest and would be the most cramped.

If their brief snit in the banquet hall is anything to go by, Gimrizh would say that Baras and Vowrawn don’t particularly like each other. Was that why Baras picked her? She can remember him saying that he thought Vowrawn would like her - was he hoping to rub such a good choice into Vowrawn’s face? She wishes they would all just destroy each other. It’s not like they don’t deserve such a fate.

Fuck, she’s exhausted. It must be the morning by now. She should have gotten some sleep at least.

It’s strange to think that she’s still expected to appear before the Grand Marshall within the week. Even if she escapes and makes it to Luthow in time, she doubts she’ll be able to get her sword as well. Unless the Grand Marshall believes what’s happened to her, her business will be ruined.

Fuck these fucking vampires.

Gimrizh pinches herself back awake and forces herself to stare at the maps in front of her, trying to figure out a plan from what she has.

Her best bet would be escape through the north wing. It’s the smallest and it would be easiest to get to an outside wall from her chambers. From there she could climb out a window and be home free. Of course, she doesn’t know how she’d get to the north wing, or how she’d ditch Qet or Jaesa long enough to get down the side of the building before being noticed. For that, a distraction would be ideal, but she still doesn’t know enough about how to get into the north wing in the first place.

Fortunately, Vowrawn keeps impressive records.

The map book contains a series of notations about residence plans, the notes made in a short scratching writing. She thinks that they’ve been made by whoever’s in charge of housekeeping, given that she’s pretty sure Vowrawn himself has made notes in the book as well and this isn’t his handwriting. The notes lead her to a different section of the library that contains a desk and a series of absurdly plush chairs.

Vowrawn’s study perhaps?

She plops herself down in his seat, rifling through the drawers, looking for the plans that must be here - _ah ha_.

A list of room assignments.

She’s about to take that bounty and return to the map section when a different thought occurs to her. Vowrawn wouldn’t have cleared his desk out - he wouldn’t even know she’d be coming in here. She looks up to check where Qet is. She’s in the clear, he can’t see her at all. There’s no good view of Vowrawn’s desk from the doors.

Carefully, so as not to leave an obvious trail, she starts searching his desk for anything that could be used as a weapon.

A sharp fountain pen, excellent. She tucks that down the front of her bodice. At least this corset is good for something. Underneath a stack of papers reveals an even better find - a letter opener. Working from feel alone, she uses the sharp tip to unpick a few stitches in her bodice, before sliding the small knife into the fabric, letting it rest in it’s makeshift pocket between the lines of embroidery.

They might have taken her sword from her, but they can’t take every weapon out of this whole manor. These things can’t kill vampires. Distractions though? That they can cause. They can also hurt her. Could she use her blood for anything?

She looks for a few minutes more. To her disappointment, nothing further turns up. Oh well, she supposes what she has here is a pretty good start.

The room assignment sheet gets taken back to where she left the giant map book. Every name on the sheet is given a number, and that room is numbered correspondingly on the maps, allowing her to easily visualize where everyone is.

Her eyes pause on Malavai’s name. He doesn’t matter. That’s what she tells herself. Besides, his rooms are inconveniently located, too close to the edge of the wing where there’s a marked guardpost. Baras’s rooms are located on the top story, also problematic in how close they are to central staircases and other areas that she’s sure would be frequently patrolled.

What’s on the floor below Baras’s rooms…?

Draagh’s chambers.

Now that might be a good excuse to get into the north wing. She’s nowhere near ready to speak with Malavai, even as a diversion. If she’d needed to do it, she would, but since she has a choice not to, she’ll take it. There’s any number of reasons she could have for wanting to chat with Draagh - his eye, his assistance in capturing her - she’ll think of something. That’s not the most important part of this plan.

She tries to run through it in her head.

She gets into Draagh’s chambers. Somehow she gets him to step outside. She legs it out of a window - and then they pull her back as soon as she reaches the ground.

If she went up instead of down - that might work. A terrible, distracting thought occurs to her. If she causes a diversion, she could go up one floor, make her way to Baras’s chambers and steal back her sword. From there, she’d at least have a weapon to help her in making an escape. And if she’s caused a distraction, slipping past the guard tower wouldn’t be an issue, as they’d likely have been scrambled to catch her.

It’s a shame that any notes she makes will compromise her plan, because she’d really prefer it if she could draw out her route. She could make a copy, but what’s the risk that someone would catch her with it?

In the end, she decides in favor of it, and returns to Vowrawn’s desk for a few spare sheets of parchment and an inkwell.

Using one of his quills instead of the pen she has stored on her person, she begins painstakingly drawing out a rudimentary version of the map before her. It’s messy, time consuming work. She’s hardly a cartographer. It’ll be legible, and that’s enough. Prettiness is less important than her life.

Every so often, she has to pause. Her shoulders get stiff, her eyes droop, and she needs to crack out her knuckles as they tense from holding a quill for so long.

At some point during her transcriptions, Jaesa reappears.

Her lady in waiting at least has the sense to knock on one of the further shelves without approaching Gimrizh directly. It’s still enough of a shock to send Gimrizh bolting upright, pushing her papers to the side where Jaesa can’t see them.

“Highness,” Jaesa says demurely, “It’s late morning. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sleep?”

Gimrizh shakes her head. She doesn’t have time for that. Escape has to be her highest priority. There’s a buzz running through her system, making her wired and ready to move. The adrenaline withdrawal wore off sometime during the party and now she’s back to being energized. “No. Is that all?”

“Would you like to break your fast?”

Food is probably a good idea. Gimrizh will need her strength, given that she’ll probably have to run for some while after she makes it out of the manor. “Yes, please. Something with meat, and coffee. Strong coffee.”

“Yes, highness.”

At that, Jaesa vanishes again.

Gimrizh picks up her quill and resumes her work.

She almost falls asleep twice more before she finishes. When it’s done, she marks out her best route through the manor from Draagh’s rooms. There are a couple she can take, but the ideal choice involves going through connecting chambers and servant corridors instead of the main halls that are likely to be quite busy if she’s faked an escape attempt. In a way, that’s good, because she wants all those guards to run to the wrong part of the manor. It still makes her escape route more indirect.

By the time Jaesa returns with a steaming plate of eggs and sausage, Gimrizh has finished the map and tucked the folded parchment into her sleeve where it rests against her upper arm. It’s flat enough that it doesn’t show against the tight fabric.

Gimrizh scarfs down her food and chugs the coffee, desperate for the energy it’ll provide.

“Can I…” Jaesa’s surprised by the speed at which Gimrizh chokes down the plate. “Can I get you anything else, highness?”

She wipes her mouth on a napkin, removing the grease from her lips. “No thank you.”

“Um. Lord Vowrawn requests that you join him in his drawing room, highness.”

Ah _shit._

Refusing will draw more suspicion to her than she can afford right now. It’ll probably be best if she just goes along with it and then returns to her escape plans as soon as Vowrawn gets whatever he wants from her. “Very well,” she tells Jaesa. “Take me to him.”

With a curtsey, Jaesa leads her out of the library, Qet dogging their heels as usual.

As Gimrizh expected, Jaesa seems to be leading her towards the south wing for her meeting with Vowrawn. They still haven’t passed a window. Gimrizh’s sense of time in this place is so skewed without any natural light to mark the passage of time. If Jaesa hadn’t told her it’s mid-morning she’d never have guessed.

“Does sunlight hurt vampires?” she asks.

Jaesa shakes her head. “No, highness. We are nocturnal though.”

Ah, perhaps that’s why it’s much quieter now as they skirt past the main halls. “So your kind does sleep?”

“Yes. Mainly for pleasure, we can go days and days without sleep. Most of us prefer to nap for a few hours during midday.”

It’s a shame the lot of them are so horrid. Their species is rather fascinating. It’s funny - she felt like she had to wring information out of Malavai but Jaesa just easily gives it up. She wonders if it’s a personality trait or just because now they know she’s going to die in three days and will have no time to tell other humans or use it to hurt them. They’re so confident in their expectation that she’ll just lie down and give up. She’ll show them.

They end up in the southern wing, in a beautiful parlor with a golden tea service set for two on the center table.

Vowrawn is lounging on an emerald green chaise, casually sipping from a tea cup. “Ah, highness! Please, come in, make yourself comfortable. Qet, dear, wait outside, won’t you? And darling Jaesa, you’re dismissed, with my apologies for your lord’s actions.”

Her entourage obeys him instantly.

When Gimrizh remains standing, he gestures to the lounge across from him again, “Please, majesty, do take a seat.”

She does. It’s a surprise when he himself pours her a cup of tea, holding it out for her. Is it… No, they do seem rather set on waiting the three days before killing her. She’s safe. It’s a rose tea, her first sip is delicious beyond belief, certainly the finest tea she’s ever had. She wonders if he’s drinking from the same pot, or if his cup contains blood instead.

“Thank you,” she says automatically after she finishes half her cup.

There seems to be a constant levity shining in Vowrawn’s eyes. “I’m so glad that you like it. Help yourself to anything at the table, really, I insist.”

The spread of bite-sized sandwiches and scones tempts her, despite having just eaten a rather large breakfast. She grabs a sandwich and tries to be more elegant while eating this time. “Why did you wish to see me, my lord?”

“Why, I want to get to know you, of course!” He takes a deep sip from his cup before elaborating. “Humans are fascinating. For food, that is. I always love taking the opportunity to learn more about your kind during these parties. It’s so fun, wouldn’t you say?”

Not really, no.

“If we’re so fascinating to you, why eat us?”

He laughs as though that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Yes, right there, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. How do humans describe it? Gallows humor?” He continues with her question completely ignored. “So tell me about your previous life. Where did you live before we found you?”

What’s the harm? Can he use anything she tells him against her? That said, she’s not sure what Baras might have told him - and she’s not sure how he’d react if he caught her in a lie. “Upper Welshire,” she tells him.

Part of her mind resigns herself to never returning to that city once she escapes. No matter. Her home is insignificant compared to her life.

“Ah yes, Baras mentioned that we found you in the Vildenwald. What is that parish like? I've visited it many times myself, but I'm curious as to what it feels like to actually live there.”

“It is as all human parishes are.”

Vowrawn seems disappointed that she doesn't want to play his game. “How was your life there?”

“Not long enough.”

Cue laughter again. Damn him for taking her life so lightly. “Why did you leave? What made you travel through the Vildenwald? As far as I know, most humans don’t tend to travel far. Or am I mistaken?”

“We travel more than you might think.”

“Do you like the South then?”

“Currently? It could be better.”

He’s grinning again. Does he really find her so entertaining? “Is this why Baras picked you up?” He fills his cup from the same pot that he used to serve Gimrizh. So he is drinking tea, that’s that question answered. “Did you amuse him?”

She can’t imagine that upturned nose of Baras’s finding anyone funny, and her capture seemed more accidental than targeted. But Malavai - he had found her interesting. Did he - no, he didn’t know she was heading across the Southern border. There’s no way he could have actually tracked her down. Besides, from their goodbyes after the party she’d been pretty sure that both of them were content with never meeting again.

“You say that as though Lord Baras is capable of humor.”

Vowrawn snickers. “Too true, my dear majesty. The day Baras becomes pleasant to be around will be the day I give up my title and join the church.”

In that case, perhaps her time would be best spent cracking jokes around Baras and waiting for one of them to do the trick. “Yes, he does seem rather dull.”

“Is it true you actually maimed poor Draagh?”

This seems to be the question he’s been waiting for her to ask. “I took his eye,” she admits, pride swelling within her at the memory. She wishes she had her sword with her now. Then she could give Vowrawn an up close demonstration of her skills. Pleasant visions of cutting him open from pelvis to to chin float in her mind. He’s unarmed, she’s fast enough to do it - her heart longs for her blade in hand.

“How utterly delightful,” Vowrawn replies.

Gimrizh’s grip on her cup tightens to the point where she nearly cracks the porcelain. “And I killed two of Lord Baras’s men before that.”

It’s impossible to tell if his sharp intake of breath is excitement or disapproval. “I’m surprised Baras kept you after that.”

“He thought you would like me,” she tells him. It’s not like she cares about their struggles, but if they want to bring her into it, she’ll stir up trouble. “He didn’t say outright, of course. I believe that he was hoping to pick someone you’d like in order to rub it in your face.”

“That does sound like him. I’ve been ribbing him for years about his poor choices every time it’s his turn to pick. At least his sister has a better sense of fun.”

Ekkage had certainly seemed more interested in Gimrizh, back in the banquet hall. That does seem to be what Vowrawn finds funny, at any rate. “She called me an ‘adorable thing’ if that’s what passes for a joke here. I wasn’t amused.”

Vowrawn shrugs. “Ekkage is an acquired taste.”

“If only that statement applied to me.”

That comment he seems to find especially hilarious, if his laughter is anything to go by. “It truly is a shame that Baras doesn't respect your sense of humor.” He helps himself to a scone, smearing cream and jam over it before plopping it into his mouth. Gimrizh can see his fangs. “Tell me about your family. Back in Upper Welshire.”

“No parents, no siblings, no spouse.”

No one for a vampire to target. And no one to go looking for her when she’s declared missing.

“Shame,” he says again.

“What about your family, my lord?” she asks, wanting him to feel just as poked and prodded as he is making her feel. “Do you have siblings? What about your parents? Have you got a spouse?”

He shakes his head, “Tragically, I never married. As for parents, well. You wouldn’t recognize her name even if I told you, she’s been dead for so long. My sire had many progeny, but ultimately I emerged as the holder of my bloodline’s title - namely our claim to superiority in the South. That was so long ago, and since then many of my siblings have died and others have become so irrelevant that I’ve completely lost touch with them.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m not sure. Older than my three fellows, certainly. I lost track somewhere in the two hundreds, all the years look the same after that.”

“It must be nice, knowing that you’ll live to see the end of the week.”

“It can get dull, at times.”

Fuck. _Him._  Oh how she’d love to have the problem of living for long enough that life itself can become a chore. She’d gladly trade places with him, maybe he’d find being in her situation fun, hm? And the irony of it - that these parties are what he uses to find entertainment, oh that is not lost on her. How dare he kill her just to amuse himself during his ever so long life. How fucking dare he.

The teacup rattles under her hands as she tightly sets it down. “Thank you for the conversation, my lord. Please excuse me.”

“Of course, highness.”

She’s already out the door by the time he finishes speaking. Qet is waiting for her outside, but at least Jaesa took Vowrawn’s suggestion and left. One of those midday naps she mentioned, maybe?

Gimrizh snaps her fingers at Qet, “Take me to Lord Draagh’s chambers. _Now_.”

This ends now. She’s done with this - _so fucking done_. Her plans are ready, she doesn’t need anything else to make her escape attempt, and the faster she acts the sooner she leaves this damn place. She’s done being terrified for the amusement of a bunch of vampires getting off on tormenting humans like prey.

That’s all she is to them. Prey.

Steam is coming out of her ears as Qet leads her to the north wing of the manor.

“Oh look! It’s her highness!”

A group of vampires are lounging in the corridor, one of them holding a half empty bottle that’s contents sloshes around as he walks. Gimrizh isn’t sure if they’re drunk on wine or the excitement of the party. Either way, they’re probably not a threat, as Qet seems more exasperated by their appearance than bothered. Of course. No one here wants to eat her just yet. They’re saving her for further humiliation first.

“Highness,” one of the woman coos, “You left the party so early this morning, we were all very disappointed.”

Gimrizh doesn’t want to stop for them. “Tragic,” she says flatly.

The man holding the bottle giggles and nudges his fellow in the arm, “You should bow to her. It would be hilarious.”

His friend laughs, bending into a deep and exaggerated bow, his fingers almost scraping the floor as he feigns supplication to Gimrizh. “Majesty,” he snickers, the rest of the little group not even bothering to contain their mirth.

“On your knees then,” Gimrizh demands.

He glances at his companions, who are howling with laughter - what a sight for them, the false queen being so authoritative, as though she has real power, how funny it must be for them. “As her highness commands,” he says with a snort.

As soon as he gets on his knees, Gimrizh plants her heeled foot on his head, shoving his forehead to the tiled floor.

Then she steps over him as though he’s just a stone in her way.

And his friends burst out laughing.

The echoes of the group’s giggles taunt her the entire walk to the north wing. Her hands fist her skirts, so tightly that her nails dig deep crescent grooves into her palms. Bastards. The lot of them.

She’s still fuming when Qet announces her to Draagh.

Draagh’s rooms are nearly as elaborate as her own, she briefly wonders exactly how highly ranked the man she mutilated is. Rank clearly didn’t save his eye.

“Oh look,” Draagh croons as she enters. He stands and gives a short sarcastic bow. “It’s her highness. Whatever brings her esteemed majesty to my lowly rooms?”

Gimrizh motions for Qet to remain at the door and then shuts it in his face. That’s one vampire momentarily taken out of the picture. Now she just needs to find some reason for Draagh to leave. Can she embarrass him? Or would it be better for her to fake a panic attack of sorts and demand space? Whatever she does, it doesn’t need to buy her much time. All she’ll need is a minute.

Large windows shine daylight into Draagh’s sitting room, tempting her with the allure of freedom.

“I wanted to see how your eye was doing,” she says sweetly.

He glares at her, only one eye visible as his right is wrapped in bandages. “Well isn’t her majesty a right bitch.”

She takes a seat on his sofa, still figuring out how she wants to play this. Panic attack, she thinks. He’s angry enough, it should be easy to provoke him into scaring her. “It won’t heal, will it? How does that feel? To have your usually invulnerable self marred forever by a silly, mere human?”

“Maybe I’ll take yours,” he bites back, his hands tight fists on his thighs.

Gimrizh forces her eyes to widen slightly for just a second. She’s not afraid of him, not right now. Not after seeing him screaming on the ground in pain from an injury that she gave him. “I don’t think you’d want everyone here angry with you for spoiling their fun.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are plenty of things I could do to you without any of the higher lords getting upset about it.” He’s circling her now, stalking her, trying to scare her. She can hear him breathing behind her. “Fair is fair, after all.”

Act afraid.

“You couldn’t.”

He laughs, a short sharp bark. “Dear highness, I can think of a number of things off the top of my head.”

She forces herself silent and bites down tightly on her lower lip.

His claws trail over her bare shoulders, tapping against her neck. Against her pulse. Her artery just beneath his sharp claws. “I could _bite_ you. I could make you _like_ it. I could make you hate yourself for enjoying what I can do to you. A little mark on you - no one will notice. No one will care.”

_I bet you would like that, you depraved bastard._

“You couldn’t make me enjoy something like that. You _couldn’t_.”

“Majesty, a bit of venom in my bite will make you love the feeling of being eaten.” His claws pause thoughtfully on her skin. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to get flack from my lord for that, so maybe I’d just let you scream the whole time. Doesn’t that sound lovely? I’d keep things silent, lap up every drop of your blood so quickly - no one would ever hear or smell what I do to you. I think that’s fair for what you did to my eye, don’t you? You owe me that.”

A shudder runs up her spine, and it’s only partly faked. “S-stop it. Stop it!”

“Make me.”

She flinches away from him, forcing herself not to look him in the eye, falling from the couch to the floor. She makes sure to bang up against the table as she hits the ground, pain jolting against her shoulder, selling the act just a little bit more. “Get away - get out! Get out! I’ll - I’ll call Qet - I’ll - !”

There’s pure satisfaction in his laughter as he walks to the door, “As her majesty commands. Don’t you worry, I’ll tell Qet that nothing’s amiss.”

A sob tumbles from her lips. The click of the door opening, Draagh’s footsteps - the door closes. That’s her cue.

What a depraved man. At least he’s made her job easy.

Gimrizh immediately gets to her feet and strides towards the window. Apparently Draagh had not been expecting her, the window isn’t locked, and the latch is easily undone. The first inch of the frame needs to be worked up gently, avoiding any noise, but after that it slides as if it’s been oiled. She shoves the glass all the way up and relishes her first breath of fresh air in what feels like years.

Vowrawn’s manor is in the mountains. They’re on top of a tall, spiraling peak, green lush forests far below, so far that it just looks a blur to Gimrizh’s eyes. The drop is terrifying to look at. Objectively, she knew that Draagh’s quarters were high up, but it’s different to actually see how high in person. Where the manor walls finally meet the ground, there are well groomed bushes and gardens. If she slips and falls, that’s where they’d find her body, just a splatter among the roses - she tries not to think about that.

There’s a job to do.

She draws her letter opener and cuts a wide strip off the hem of her gown, then rips that fabric into two pieces. Sitting on the windowsill for support, she hitches her skirts up. She’s never cut herself on purpose like this before. First time for everything.

It will ruin everything if she shouts. She grits her teeth and slashes a line across her thigh. As soon as she’s done, before she can even see the red of blood, she presses one of the strips of fabric to the cut. Within seconds, the red of her silk starts to soak a darker color, turning almost black, ruining the fabric.

There’s pain too, but not bad. She’s had worse. It’s almost polite, the pain. It waits a moment after the cut before it shows itself, like knocking on the door before entering.

“Highness?” Qet’s voice sounds through the door.

“I’m fine!” she calls out. “Sorry - I fell - I’m fine! Give me a minute, my bodice slipped - ah, I’m not decent!”

She wraps her thigh as tightly as she can without cutting off circulation and then slips the dirty piece of silk out from the bandages. They can probably smell it - but that she can use to her advantage.

She tosses the blood stained piece of fabric out the window. It flutters down gently, eventually landing in the bushes below. And Gimrizh stands up on the windowsill.

It’s just like climbing a tree. Her hands pull her up, finding vines to grip onto and divits in the stone, leading the way for her feet to follow. The stone scrapes her skin and she has to be careful that she doesn’t bleed on the wall. Damn this dress - it is not made for scaling a building, and her thigh is already protesting the action enough, she does not need her dress getting in the way as well.

The climb takes less time that she’d feared.

She pushes up the window in front of her and tumbles inside as fast as she can, landing quietly on her somewhat unsteady feet. As soon as she makes sure the room is empty, she shuts the window behind her.

Just before the glass closes, she can hear the sound of Qet’s panicked, “Ah shit. She’s gone!”

Good.

Now all he needs to do is sound up an alarm and get every guard scrambling to the ground levels. After all, why would she go up when the only way out is down?

She listens at the door, heart in her throat. Even though the route is burned into her mind, she still withdraws her map and double checks the best way out. It’s more to give her mind something to do as she hears the rush of armored guards clatter through the halls as they all hurry downstairs.

A few of them shout. Some laugh.

One’s voice comes through clearly as he passes - “I was hoping this year we’d get a runner. The ones that fight always taste so much better.”

As soon as there’s silence from the halls, Gimrizh stuffs her map back up her sleeve and starts to move.

Her mind remembers the way precisely, the details burned in out of necessity, every aspect of her quest for survival standing out as though ringed with candles. She quickly scans the room she’s in before making her way to the connecting lounge area. The heeled slippers they forced her into get abandoned quickly in favor of her silent bare feet. Before, in the Vildenwald, she’d needed speed over stealth. Now she needs the opposite.

In fact, the more time, the better. Once they comb the bottom floors for her and find that she isn’t there, they’ll realize she’s still in the manor, and on the upper floors at that. By that time of course, she’ll be making her way down. They’ll always be searching for her exactly where she isn’t.

She darts down a servant’s corridor after pressing her ear against the door to listen for footsteps.

Fear is getting to her now, and she has to force her heartbeat to still, force her breathing to remain even. This is her only shot, if she fails, she’ll need to come up with a new plan and her time is limited.

Which means she can’t fail.

Almost to Baras’s quarters now. She waits at the edge of a main hallway, double and triple checking to make sure the coast is clear before she slips through the doors and into what she can only assume is Baras’s sitting room.

Sword. If she’s an old mean vampire lord, where would she leave a sword?

The door closes behind her.

She didn’t - shit.

Her hand goes to her bodice, pulling the letter opener free as she spins around, knife in hand, to confront whoever’s here.

Oh fuck -

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Malavai says slowly. His hand falls from the door as he steps in front of it, putting himself between her and her exit.

Unlike the last time they met, he isn’t carrying a rapier, so at least her chances in a fight will be better. It won’t matter though. She’s failed - he’s caught her. She’s lost. She’s fucking lost, and to him _again_.

She flips the letter opener around in her palm, the blade against her forearm - if she needs to hurt him, _well_. That won’t be a problem.

Her blade slashes towards his throat. He leans backwards, bringing up his hand to redirect her strike. Hair falls in her eyes as she ducks down. The letter opener flips again, this time pointed straight at his stomach. One quick stab near his hips would certainly make it difficult for him to walk, even if it wouldn’t really harm him.

Just before the opener connects with his gut, his cold fingers grab her hand. He easily twists her wrist, throwing her off enough for his other hand to rip the opener from her grasp and toss it across the room.

With a furious snarl, she reaches down her bodice and grabs the pen.

He quickly snags her other hand as well, pinning both her wrists in place as she struggles against him.

“Are -” He stares at the pen with surprise. “Are you trying to attack me with a _pen_?”

To no avail, she tries to twist out of his grasp. “Your skills of observation are truly astounding.”

“You are aware that can’t harm me?”

“Maybe not, but I can still shove it up your nose and then you’ll be breathing ink for days until you can dislodge the tip from your fucking skull.”

If her life weren’t on the line, she might have laughed at how utterly taken aback Malavai looks by her words. “I _beg_ your pardon? That’s probably the strangest threat I’ve ever heard.”

He grabs the pen out of her hand and pockets it himself.

At least he lets her go, allowing her to rub the pressure out of her wrists. “How did you know? That I’d come here, I mean.”

He locks the door and moves towards the windows, bolting them as well. “If you want my advice, Lord Baras probably left your sword in his bedchamber. Not his sitting room. He’s paranoid enough that I imagine he would keep weapons where they could be easily grabbed should an assassin try to kill him during his sleep.”

Can she - no, he wouldn’t have told her if she actually had a chance to run for her sword before he could stop her. “Thanks. Now answer my question. How did you know I would be here?”

“Where else would you have gone?”

She doesn’t want to admit he’s right. “This manor is quite large - there are a wealth of possibilities.”

“I saw the look in your eyes when Lord Baras took your weapon. After the alarm went out that you had attempted to flee it was relatively obvious that you would try to come here before escaping.”

“I could have simply made a run for it.”

There’s almost disappointment in his eyes. “Highness, you’re cleverer than that. You know a direct approach would never work. And frankly, even if you hadn’t attempted to retrieve your sword first, this route would probably still have been the best option. Your distraction wasn’t even that poorly thought out, for the time you had.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps.

He blinks, startled. “That wasn’t my intent. My compliment was sincere.”

Does he - no, it doesn’t matter if he means that or not. She’s inclined to say he was being sincere, but it’s irrelevant. “And if I make a run for my sword? If I manage to kill you with it? Your decision to tell me where Baras keeps it was a poor one.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” he replies flatly.

She rises up on her feet, “Excuse me? You’d be dead. I’d say that matters.”

“You would never be able to escape regardless of what weapon you have on you. It wouldn’t matter to you, even if in this scenario you manage to kill me,” he explains. With another glance at the letter opener lying on the floor, he adds, “Even considering your strange choices in what can and cannot be used as a weapon.”

There’s always an escape option. There has to be. “I could kill any guard I came across.”

“By that reasoning you would have never been captured in the Vildenwald.”

Fuck him. He’s the direct reason she was taken. She knows, logically, that she was dead from the moment she stumbled into that cleaning, as there’s no way she could have defeated that many vampires on her own. Still. She hates that the points he’s making here are actually sound, she hates that she can’t deny him.

Malavai leans against the window with a sigh, “Take a look.”

She edges towards him, unwilling to consider how easy it is to be close to him. Outside the window is near the same scene she saw earlier, with a few soldiers investigating the grounds under Draagh’s rooms. Nothing shocking, as far as she can tell. “I am looking. Tell me what I’m supposed to be seeing.”

“Say you manage to make your way to the ground floor and by some miracle you are not spotted either inside the manor or climbing down the walls,” Malavai asks, “What then?”

“I run down the mountain.”

“And then? How do you avoid all the soldiers patrolling the grounds? How do you get past the gates?”

She glares out the window, refusing to acknowledge his words by answering them.

“How do you make your way down the mountain? Do you scale the sheer cliffs and break your legs doing so? Do you take the sole safe path that remains patrolled at all hours? You’re standing in the tallest building - the highest point - for miles around. How do you avoid being spotted and hunted down?”

She doesn’t even know where she is. If she made it to the forest that she can see in the distance, how could she avoid just being hunted down again as she was in the Vildenwald. And yet this manor has to have a way out, it has to. There has to be an escape route for her. Panic claws around in her insides, shredding and freezing everything in its grasp as she stares out the window and tries to think.

 _Think._ There has to be something. What part of this puzzle is she missing?

“Every prison can be broken.” Is she telling him that, or herself? “There can’t - there _has_ to be a way out.”

He avoids her eyes. “Do you really think you’re the first human who’s tried to escape? This party has been a tradition for hundreds of years. Everything, and I do mean _everything_ has been attempted and still no one has ever escaped. Fleeing the Citadel is impossible.”

“No,” she insists, her hands clutching the windowsill. “There has to be an escape route.”

If she can’t do down the mountain - or maybe she could, maybe she could try and sneak along with anyone leaving the manor - but who would? The party isn’t over yet. And if she’s monitored constantly, they’d raise the alarm and stop anyone from leaving the moment she vanishes from sight. She barely got a minute apart from Draagh and Qet, and it takes so much longer than that to hitch a ride without being discovered.

There’s something in Malavai’s voice, not quite pity, not quite disappointment but some vague sadness, as if a small part of him wishes things were different. “I know I can’t fully understand how this must feel, but I am sorry.”

“If - If there is a way out, would you tell me what it is?”

He stares at her for a long time, his lips parted ever so slightly while he tries to answer. “No,” he says at last, “Not if there was even the slightest risk that anyone would discover my assistance. And there would always be such a risk.”

Of course. She hadn’t expected he would say otherwise. They might have gotten along well enough at the Mancer’s party, but here - that doesn’t matter. She’s on her own. She’s always on her own, it won’t be any different now. “If there’s a way out. Even if you can’t tell me what it is - could you tell me if there is one?”

“You’re searching in vain,” he replies softly. “I wasn’t lying to you when I said there is no escaping this place.”

That has to be wrong.

“No,” she murmurs to herself. “No, there’s a way out. I can escape this. I can survive this. I just - I just have to figure it out.”

“The Citadel isn’t a puzzle, Gimrizh. It’s a trap.”

If she can’t sneak out - she could take her sword, put it to Vowrawn’s neck and force the rest to let her leave or she’d kill him - as if anyone here would let her get within thirty feet of Vowrawn with a blade in her hand. The moment she tried to attack him, she’d be pinned down. For that matter, she doesn’t even know if Vowrawn is a fighter. He could be. Malavai had beaten her even when she’d had her sword, it’s completely possible that Vowrawn could kill her himself should she try such a thing. All promises of waiting three days would be off if Vowrawn’s life is on the line.

Why can’t she stop shaking?

“What do you recommend I do then?” she demands, “Huh?”

He shrugs. “In the past, the humans that have seemed… better off were the ones that spent their time rather thoroughly drunk.”

“That’s your suggestion? That I spend the rest of my very short life plastered?”

“It’s that or spend the rest of your very short life terrified. Your choice. I’m only telling you what I’ve seen.”

“So - what?” She laughs bitterly, searching for the word he used so she can throw it right back at him. “Are you telling me that I should just… _‘surrender_ ’?”

He flinches. “I didn’t - that wasn’t what I meant.”

She points to the letter opener over on the floor, her hands trembling. “I don’t give up, Lord Malavai Quinn, and I’m not fucking dying here. I _refuse._ I don’t care if no one’s ever done it before, I will get the fuck out of here.”

“Then you will waste your last days alive.” He says it so matter-of-factly, with such certainty. It doesn’t help the fear that Gimrizh has been trying so hard to push down ever since she arrived here. “As I said, it’s your choice. But if you keep trying, your escape attempts will eventually stop amusing Lord Vowrawn. You may find that it is better to keep him entertained.”

“Fuck his entertainment. I am not a game.”

“To Lord Vowrawn, and the majority of those here, you are.” He holds up a hand when Gimrizh draws hers back to slap him. “I’m only stating their perception of you. If you chose not to spend your last days in drunken stupor, then you will likely find more comforts by appealing to Lord Vowrawn’s sense of humor than you would otherwise.”

Would Vowrawn - no, he’d never help her. If she asked him for assistance escaping he’d fall over laughing at her. His amusement isn’t the same as a desire to help.

No allies, no gaps in patrols, no way down the mountain, no way past the gate, no way out the manor - oh heaven help her, she’s going to die if she doesn’t think of something. Her mind is spinning with all the futility of a dog running in circles after its own tail. She keeps thinking of it like a puzzle that can be solved if only she’s clever enough and tries hard enough, but if Malavai’s right - it’s not a puzzle. Just a trap.

Even rabbits caught in snares still struggle till their dying breath. Is that all she’s doing?

“Here.”

Gimrizh frowns at the handkerchief he’s holding out to her. It’s the one she wore when they captured her. The one he gave her at the Mancer’s party. “Why?”

“It was a gift. I took it from you before anyone else could see - forgive my presumption but I assumed you wouldn’t want anyone else discovering it,” he says with a minute shrug. “Also, you seem to need it.”

She blinks and realizes her cheeks are wet. Fuck. When did she start crying? At least Malavai hasn’t pounced on this weakness - she knows anyone else in the manor would. She grabs the soft white cloth and wipes her cheeks hurriedly. Quinn is studying the window as she does so, giving her a bit of privacy to deal with the evidence of the fear, the rage, the… everything of the last few hours.

“I have to take you back to Lord Vowrawn now,” he says quietly, still looking out the window.

She stuffs the handkerchief in her sleeve where it won’t be seen. “I suppose neither of us have a choice about that, do we?”

He knows better than to answer that.

As she follows him from Baras’s chambers, she’s tempted to bend down and scoop up the fallen letter opener but refrains. Malavai would just take it from her again anyways. Besides, it was so easy to acquire one in the first place. She’s certain that if her next plan needs her to have a weapon, she can find one. It’s doubtful that she’ll get another chance at her sword - Baras will guard his quarters more thoroughly now.

Malavai seems to be leading her back to the main banquet hall. Their direction almost doesn’t register in her mind, a thousand endless loops of plans running through her thoughts. Each one is discarded almost as soon as she conceives it.

There’s nothing.

No matter how hard she thinks, she can’t come up with a way out that would work.

“Malavai,” she asks quietly. “I have to know. The Vildenwald - were you - ?”

He shakes his head. “I had no idea you would be there. I can assure you that I was not tracking you.”

“Ah.”

Vowrawn is waiting for them in the banquet hall, along with Baras and Draagh. As always, Qet hovers in the background, this time accompanied by a half dozen other guards. Her heart sinks as she considers that even if she had managed to grab the letter opener or her sword, she still would have been cornered here.

“Ah!” Vowrawn grins upon her arrival into the hall, “Welcome back, your highness!”

Oh but she wants nothing more than to put her fist through his eye. At least she has that to be grateful for. Of all the people that could have caught her, it was Malavai, who at least talks to her as though she’s capable of basic thought and didn’t laugh at her attempt.

“Thank you for retrieving her safely, Quinn,” Vowrawn continues. “I would have hated if something happened to her. Majesty, I applaud your stunt, it was really quite inspired. Tricking poor Draagh like that? I approve.”

Draagh glares at her, “I was only tricked as much as that Qet of yours was. Besides, it hardly mattered. She didn’t go anywhere!”

“Yes…” Vowrawn looks over his shoulder at Qet, “Qet dear, I didn’t assign you to her only so that you could lose her.”

“I don’t want a guard.”

Everyone turns to look at Gimrizh.

She clears her throat and repeats, “I don’t want a guard. As I’ve proven, I neither need him, nor have trouble abandoning him should I chose. Call off Qet. And don’t bother finding a replacement for him.”

Baras turns on her, arms crossed across his chest. “You don’t get to make demands - “

“I’m your queen. Yes, I do.”

Vowrawn claps his hands gleefully, “Brilliant! Of course her highness doesn’t need a guard, if that’s her will! Besides, she’s just proved that she can’t escape regardless.” He waves at Qet, sending the man from the banquet hall before he turns back to Gimrizh with a smile. “I’m ever so sorry if Qet was bothering you.”

That was surprisingly easy. So that’s what Malavai meant in his suggestion that she would find it better to entertain Vowrawn. And Vowrawn doesn’t seem fond of Baras.

She spins around to face down the Northern lord. “And you. Call of your attack dog. Draagh made certain threats towards my person that were in very poor taste -” And what else had he said? Something about wanting to avoid getting flack from Baras? “-and that I doubt you’d approve of.”

Behind her, Vowrawn snickers. “Ah, Baras, you might want to deal with your man.”

“Why don’t we speak privately, highness?” Baras grits out, tightly controlled anger furrowing his brow. It isn’t a suggestion.

“Gladly.”

As she follows Baras out, she looks to catch Malavai’s eye, just for a moment, only he’s already gone.

Baras leads her into a small study on the same level as the main hall. Without even offering her a seat, he takes the chair behind the desk and waits for her to sit across from him. She sits and tries not to remember the way he stole her sword from her, the way he had his soldiers hunt her down in the Vildenwald, the way he ordered Malavai to take her out. She hates him and yet her anger would be useless here.

“Forgive me for not pitying you,” Baras begins, almost spitting the words at her, “but you took my best man’s eye. Whatever he threatened you with was justified.”

Can she get anything from him? Does he know anything that would facilitate her escape? “He threatened to bite me. Something about - venom. He said he’d make me enjoy it.”

Baras curses. “That fool. Don’t take Draagh’s threat seriously. He wouldn’t dare go through with it.”

“Oh? And why not? He certainly seems depraved enough.”

“Because Vowrawn would have his neck for risking turning you, and despite my… dislike of Vowrawn, I would be inclined to agree - especially given how easily his blood could be consumed after your injury to his eye.” Baras places his hands firmly on the desk and looms over her. “I advise that you don’t tell Vowrawn what Draagh said. If you do, I will make your last days alive extremely unpleasant.”

“You can’t threaten me -”

“Yes, I _can_. Vowrawn might be disappointed with me, but I do not care about his opinion enough to refrain from punishing anyone who would ruin Draagh.”

The thought of using this leverage against Draagh to gain something from Baras is considered and discarded. He would have no hesitations about simply killing or torturing her before she could so much as whisper anything to Vowrawn. She supposes that while Baras might not enjoy this party, he’d put up with Vowrawn’s indulgences to a point. If she tries to blackmail him, all bets would be off.

That’s her last resort then.

“Message received, Lord Baras,” she replies tersely. “Is there anything else?”

“No. That’ll be all.”

She doesn’t bother to curtsey whens she leaves.

What can she do? What does she need? She refuses to believe what Malavai told her, she refuses to accept that there isn’t a way out. So if she can’t - fuck, why can’t she think her way out of this? Information. She needs more information. Her map was a good start, but she only managed to replicate the northern wing as opposed to the entire manor.

Besides. If she doesn’t attempt something, she’s going to go insane. She’s already had two breakdowns this day, she can’t afford to waste time on another one.

Even as some insidious shadow in her mind whispers that it’s futile, she makes her way back toward Vowrawn’s library.

She can’t shake the feeling of being on a funeral march.

What would a library hold that could tell her how to escape? Even with a more detailed map, if she can’t get past the gate outside she’s still dead. For that matter, there’s still the issue of there only being one way down the mountain. The walls of this place close in on her tighter than the sides of a coffin.

The manor is more lively now, revelers in elaborate dress beginning to flit through the halls, preparing for what is sure to be a vibrant feast this evening.

Gimrizh ignores them. Exhaustion sits on her shoulders, the coffee all those hours ago long since faded from her system. The only thing keeping her running is fear. Fear, and refusal to die and let these bastards get what they want.

At least the part of the manor where the library is situated is somewhat quieter.

The door, to her surprise, is already open. She takes a few silent steps in, her feet still bare and soft against the stone floor.

“You need to keep better care of your things.” That’s Malavai’s voice. Shit, the library isn’t as empty as she’d wanted. “This is your pen, isn’t it?”

A woman’s calm tone replies. “Damn. Thank you for - hold on, does this mean someone raided my desk?”

Gimrizh backs away until she’s out of the library entirely, unwilling to be discovered here. It’s bad enough that Malavai knows where she got her weapons, she doesn’t want to walk in and admit that she’s been raiding the library for escape routes. They might prevent her from entering again entirely.

Aimless, she wanders back towards her chambers.

She tries to keep track of the time. It must be early evening by now. When she’d been in the banquet hall, the glass ceiling above had shown an afternoon sky. Her time is running out. Even three days - she doesn’t even have that anymore. Now she’s down to just over two.

No matter how much she wishes, no one can stop time.

“Highness!”

Two women cheerfully approach her, one white blonde, the other a study of dark curls. Painted lips smile at her.

“Come have a drink with us, majesty,” the dark haired one suggests playfully, gently tugging on Gimrizh’s arm in a facsimile of friendship. “The feast won’t start for another hour or three, but there’s no reason we can’t get to know you better now, is there?”

The humans that have seemed better off were the ones that spent their time rather thoroughly drunk.

_Why not._

Gimrizh lets herself be swept along through the alcoves around the banquet hall as the two women collect glasses of pale white wine, the liquid so light that it shines like the moon. They find a table and seat her between them, fawning over her as though she’s a long lost friend - or a fond-of pet, more likely. It’s folly to expect actual compassion from these vampires. A semblance of the real deal is all she will ever get from them.

“I’m Nadia,” introduces the blonde, “and my sweet companion is Mako.”

The wine is crisp, like a mountain breeze, and more flavorful than anything Gimrizh has tasted before. Despite it being hours since she ate, she doesn’t bother holding back and drains her glass completely. “I would introduce myself, but you two seem to already know me.”

Mako snickers, “Oh, we couldn’t miss you. The last few years were dreadful, really. One was so old, the other was this rude little man that we couldn’t wait to see gone.”

“You’re pretty though!” Nadia chimes it, “A bit rough around the edges, but that’s humans for you. Your hair is even shorter than mine!”

Gimrizh sets her glass down and steals Nadia’s. The wine churns in her stomach, and she just stares at her new glass without drinking it. “I burnt it off on accident five years ago. Since then I’ve never let it get longer than this. Tell me, Miss Nadia and Miss Mako, do you know how hair smells when it burns?”

“No,” Mako says, wrinkling her nose.

Nadia leans in, her chin propped on her hands as though a child eagerly awaiting a bedtime story. “How did you burn it?”

“Water blasting scale off a billet. Sparks caught on my hair.” Gimrizh replicates Nadia’s posture and leans forward as well. “How about you? Have you ever been injured? Ever been _hurt_?”

“I had a human claw up my face one time,” Mako admits. “He seemed _so_ nice at first.”

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, I turned him. He was so pretty. Now he’s one of my Lord Marr’s soldiers.”

Nadia is quick to add, “That’s a _real_ honor, you know. You have to be quite exceptional to get picked by Lord Marr, even among vampires.”

“And we’re all exceptional!” Mako laughs.

“What are the eastern parishes like?” Gimrizh asks, her stomach writhing at the thought of how superior they think themselves. She’s heard stories - Vampires only choose the best to be turned. The pretty ones, the clever ones, the ones that are particularly talented. Vampires fancy themselves as being better than humans and select to prove it. Egotistical bastards, the lot of them.

Mako shrugs and finishes half her glass before handing the rest to Nadia. “Moorish.”

“Mostly moorlands, is what she means to say,” Nadia explains with a fond roll of her eyes. “The East can be bleak, but we do have the largest parish - again, because it’s just one big moor. Cities can be quite inconveniently spread out though.” She playfully nudges Gimrizh again, “Don’t tell anyone, but we and some friends often sneak over to the North for a quick meal if the Marshalls in the East get troublesome.”

Right. How inconvenient it must be for them. Those pesky Marshalls preventing murder. A real tragedy, she’s sure.

“Is that allowed?” she asks instead. Her mind is still running in circles. She needs to think - she needs more wine.

Mako just flips a poof of her hair over her shoulder, “Please, Lord Baras is too busy having his head up his -” she coughs and then winks, “Well. I don’t want to be vulgar. Not in front of her highness.”

“He was rather rude to me earlier,” Gimrizh muses. “I suppose -”

Suddenly, Mako gasps. She tugs on Nadia’s sleeve, looking at something over Gimrizh’s shoulder. “Oh my - she’s here! Look, _look_!” Her excitement is whispered, as if to prevent this newcomer from hearing them. She makes Gimrizh turn around too, “That there - that’s one of the few good things the North has going for it!”

There, standing in a fine suit and drinking wine, is Mancer Vette.

But she’s not - how did - and Pierce is here too, why would a human willingly walk into this slaughterhouse -

“Please excuse me,” Gimrizh says absently to the two women.

She gets to her feet, weaving through the gathering crowd without paying attention to any of them, her full focus on the Mancer. It doesn’t make sense to her. Why would the Mancer be here, of all places? Sure, Gimrizh is pretty certain that having Dryad blood in her makes the Mancer unlikely to be eaten but still.

“Mancer Vette. Why are you here?” Gimrizh demands.

The Mancer almost drops her glass. Her jaw hangs open, flaps for a moment, and then she sighs. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you here?” she repeats incessantly. “What are you doing - you’re not a vampire.” She pauses and frowns and Pierce. Then she remembers the harsh glares he had been sending Malavai during the party and discounts that brief thought. “Pierce isn’t a vampire either. So what the hell are you doing here? Did you know that I’d be - I was captured after I left your party - Pierce was one of the only people who knew I’d be traveling south - did you - did you set me up?”

“No!” Vette gasps, “I swear it, I didn’t know you’d be… well.”

Pierce huffs and crosses his arms. “I certainly didn’t tell anyone, let alone some filthy bloodsucker.”

“I’m here because I provide…” Vette hesitates for a few minutes, making a few complicated gestures with her hands, as though searching for a good innuendo.

“You sell blood to the North, I know.”

“Oh. You know. Yes. Not - I don’t kill anyone. I take only about a pint per person and I do pay - but yes. I sell them fresh, stasis-sealed blood. It makes me valuable to them, and respected. I’ve been doing it for years now and this is the first time I’ve held enough popularity and sway to be invited to this party.”

And to think, Gimrizh had liked the Mancer. She’d had no illusions that Vette didn’t sell to vampires, but the way Vette makes it sound - well, it sounds almost like Vette sold her work specifically to make her way to this party. Business is one thing. This boot-kissing, lack of self-respect bullshit is another. How can Vette compromise her decency by wanting to attend a party like this - where a human is mocked and murdered?

“So you’re simply here on invite?”

“Yes. I didn’t know you would be the one they chose this year.”

“And Pierce?”

He shrugs, “I go where the Mancer goes. No one here would be stupid enough to attack Vette’s bodyguard. Not unless they felt like losing their chance at one of the safest ways to secure their food.”

Vette gently lays a hand on Gimrizh’s arm. “Come on. Not here.”

The two of them move to a quiet alcove, with Pierce standing menacingly at Vette’s back in case anyone tries to get close enough to listen in.

“I’m sorry,” Vette repeats, despicable pity in her eyes. “Truly, I am. If you want…” She bites her lower lip and hesitates. “I know a few spells that require supplies I already have on hand. I can - I can put you to sleep. If you want. They wouldn’t be able to wake you up - you wouldn’t feel a thing when they…”

Only Gimrizh would still be dead.

She grabs the Mancer’s hand tightly enough to turn their fingers white. “I won’t die here.”

“There’s no escape. Trust me. I’ve spent decades trying to find a hole in the Citadel’s defenses - don’t ask why. Vampire manors, all the major four ancestral homes, have the tightest security I’ve ever seen. Once you’re in, you’re trapped unless they want you to leave or you have the sheer power to kill hundreds of guards on your way out. Which no one here does.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“No. There has to be a way out.”

“I told you, I’ve been trying to crack this place for longer than you’ve been alive. You can’t leave without permission.”

Shit.

No.

That’s wrong. That _has_ to be wrong.

Blood rushes through Gimrizh’s ears and her eyes cloud over, turning her world to white hazy fog. She can’t - she can’t -

_Don't panic don’t panic don’t panicdon’tpanicdon’t -_

How can there be no way out? But if Vette’s right - and what incentive does the Mancer have for knowing such things about Vowrawn’s manor? Only Vette has no reason to lie. Malavai, well, he’s a vampire. But Vette? Gimrizh pays Vette. Vette’s incentive is directly for profit, and she profits by having a paying customer alive.

“Get me out of here,” Gimrizh begs, “Please. Heaven above, please get me out of here.”

Vette can’t look her in the eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I truly am, but I can’t. Even if it were possible with my help - I - I have my reasons for being here. I can’t risk being thrown out and told never to return.”

“Damn your reasons! They’re going to _kill_ me!”

The pity grows in Vette’s eyes but there’s nothing else - she doesn’t flinch. She’s not going to do anything. She’s just going to stand there as Gimrizh dies. “I can put you to sleep,” Vette reminds her, almost pleading for her to take that option. “It wouldn’t hurt you. Make your peace with the angels and I can help you drift into a painless slumber.”

“Is your - your _popularity_ with these creatures worth my life?” Gimrizh can barely draw breath to speak.

It was foolish of her to expect help from anyone, but Vette had seemed decent. Only instead she’s just as much of a bastard as the rest of them.

“I’m not doing this for - !” Vette cuts herself off and looks around to make sure no one is listening in. “This has nothing to do with popularity. My _wife_ is trapped here. And I’m sorry, truly I am, but I can’t save both you and her.”

“I can get you a map to the area marked as human livestock if you can -”

“She’s - she’s not human.”

Those words burn. Gimrizh recoils, “You’re letting me die for a - a _vampire_?”

“I’m letting you die so that my wife, the woman I love, can walk free for the first time in decades! I offered to put you to sleep - that’s all I can do.”

“Damn you to the seventh hell - !”

Without even realizing it, Gimrizh’s hand is raised to strike -

In the blink of an eye, Pierce steps between the two, her hand falling flat on his shoulders instead of across Vette’s cheek. She digs her nails into his shirt, her fingers catching on a necklace chain, desperately trying to hurt him as much as they’re hurting her.

“Hey, hey,” he says calmly, pulling her hands off him, “Calm down.”

She spits in his face. “Fuck you.”

“Listen - hey, stop, listen,” Pierce lets her go. He steps back, still standing in front of a pale-faced Vette. “We’ll be here till the party ends. The Mancer can put you to sleep up until noon of the third day. After that I don’t think we’ll have time. Offer stands till then. Personally? The Mancer’s spellwork is solid. I’d take the offer.”

Then she’s more of a fighter than him.

Only there’s nothing to fight. There’s no way out. There’s no escape plan, there’s no help, there’s nothing.

She’s lost.

She only realizes her knees have given out when Pierce catches her. Peripherally, she’s aware that he’s shouting something, calling for help, Vette behind him trying to flag down someone in the distance. A scream claws in her throat, threatening to choke her.

In a daze, a guard escorts her to her chambers. Vette and Pierce nervously follow behind - so they can pretend that level of concern, at least.

“Highness,” the guard says softly, helping her to sit down on a settee. He turns to the Mancer and Pierce and holds out the door for them, “Please, esteemed guests, return to the party. I think her majesty just needs a moment of fresh air.”

“Of course.”

There’s a shuffle of footsteps as the two leave the room. The guard steps outside for a moment, whispers something to the two other soldiers posted outside, and then steps back in.

“Highness, your lady in waiting shall be here in a few minutes, I’ve just sent for her. I’ve just been informed that you requested no guards, shall I escort myself and my colleagues from your door?”

She tries twice before she can speak. “Yes.” It’s barely a whisper.

With a quick, relatively lazy salute, the guard departs her room, leaving her alone to stew in silence with only her own thoughts for company.

If Vette can’t find an escape route with her wife on the line - then there isn’t one. There’s no way out for Gimrizh. She’d been so certain that she could figure a way out, that she could manage to survive this, but if Malavai’s right, then it’s just a trap. It’s not a puzzle, it’s not a game no matter how much Vowrawn wants it to be. It’s just a slaughterhouse and she’s as trapped in it as a spring pig.

Or maybe it _is_ a game.

She keeps thinking that she’s lost, which implies that there’s a way to _win._

Escaping is leaving the game behind, it’s not staying and playing to victory. This manor is designed to keep her in, and perhaps that’s the problem. Every human before her, everyone who has previously tried to escape - that was how they lost. This place is meant to contain her but if -

All that’s doing is keeping her from throwing the game. She can still play to win.

How does she survive this? Not escape, but _survive?_

Gimrizh gets to her feet. She clears the low tea table and pulls an item from each sleeve, setting them down. One Northern handkerchief and one partially completed map.

“Thank you, Baras,” she mutters to herself. If he hadn’t hinted at it earlier, while he was busy threatening her into silence, this might not have occurred to her. For that matter, she should thank Draagh as well.

She’s not going to waste her last days pointlessly trying to escape and she’s not going to get herself killed.

She’s going to get herself _turned_.

As distasteful as she might find vampires, she’d rather be one of them than be dead. What’s the saying? ‘ _If you can’t beat them, join them_ ’?

Now, Baras had implied that there are two steps to turning a human into a vampire. Firstly there has to be some sort of bite, a vampire has to drink her blood with venom. That bit’s important. She has to get someone to both bite her while also wanting her to enjoy it.

Step two. She needs to consume that same vampire’s blood. From the way Baras said it and from common sense, it seems as though it has to be in that order. Venom bite first, her biting back second. Which complicates things.

She needs a way to get a vampire’s blood without arousing their suspicion. And that’ll be after they bit her. It’s just like carving the rowan handle all over again. Materials only stay alive for a short period of time - just like wood. Just like blood. She has to assume that her time is limited between getting a vampire’s blood and consuming it herself. She’ll also have to assume that, given the way Baras spoke about it, the amount of blood necessary isn’t excessive. Since Baras had been worried about Draagh’s injury providing enough blood, it means that she won’t have to drink a vampire dry.

That makes things slightly easier.

The first thing she has to do is pick her mark.

Draagh maybe? He already threatened to bite her before. Actually that’s probably what disqualifies him. Since he’s mentioned it and also specifically realized that it would get him in hot water with Baras, he’ll be aware of what she’s trying to do. It’d be easy to get his blood, to be sure, but it’d be impossible to get him to bite her properly.

Who here would give her a venom bite without thinking of it as a step in turning her? If a vampire’s venom makes the victim enjoy the bite, then she would need someone who doesn’t want to hurt her.

Malavai.

Of course.

If she uses Malavai, then getting him to bite her becomes the easy part. She’s already fucked him once. She can just be a bit more adventurous the second time.

That just leaves getting his blood somehow. She’ll have to do it without him knowing that’s what she’s after. He already foiled her escape attempt once and he’s cleverer than she’d like. She can’t risk him figuring this out as well. An ideal plan here would involve keeping Malavai significantly distracted - something that makes him only barely aware that she’s taken his blood in the first place.

Gimrizh has never been a con man but there’s a first time for everything.

What does she have to work with?

No allies, that’s for certain. She can’t count on anyone in this manor to help her unless she tricks or forces them into it. Even that carries a risk, as she can’t reveal her hand before she turns herself. It's her, a handkerchief, and an incomplete map of the manor.

She needs more information.

Spending all her time in the library will arouse suspicion, and she can’t ask a vampire for everything she’ll need - or can she?

Nadia and Mako had so readily told her that they would sneak across the Northern border to feed, they’d so easily insulted Baras, they had just treated her like a confessional. It reminds her of how humans talk to their pets. With the certain knowledge that the pet can neither understand nor tell anyone. Everyone here knows she’s dead, but she’s beginning to think that most society vampires, as is the case with humans, are incurable gossips.

She’ll need to play the part. Make people like her, make herself harmless, make herself into what Nadia and Mako had so quickly treated her as - a pretty yet innocuous friend that’s an audience for a vampire to brag to.

There’s a knock on the door.

Gimrizh takes both objects from the table and hides them under the sofa cushions. “Come in!”

“Highness,” Jaesa greets her with a curtsey. “I’m to help you prepare for the party tonight.”

The first step is getting information. Unlike early this morning, Gimrizh complies. Besides, she’s already ripped the dress she’s wearing now and she hasn’t had a pair of shoes on for hours. She needs to look presentable for her plan, has to look the part. “Of course. Thank you for your help.”

Jaesa blinks in surprise before starting to help Gimrizh out of the dress she’s in now.

“Are you…” Jaesa hesitates as she’s undoing the laces of the corset. “Are you alright? One of the guards told me that you almost passed out earlier.”

Gimrizh waves it off. It was stupid of her to expect help from the Mancer, but at least now she knows she has a different plan. The Mancer and Pierce might become useful to her later on in a different capacity. “Fine. I appreciate the concern, but it was really nothing. I just had an unpleasant conversation with the Mancer and -”

“Mancer Vette?!”

There’s a sudden tug on the laces with Jaesa’s shock.

“Do you know the Mancer?” Gimrizh asks slowly.

“Ah, not really.” What a weak reply. It’s clear from the slight tremor in Jaesa’s voice that she’s lying. “Only by reputation. I simply - well, I had no idea she was going to be here. Or - that she _is_ here, I mean.”

Fuck, Jaesa’s a terrible liar. Is Jaesa…?

Vette said she was here to get her wife to freedom. Her vampire wife. Gimrizh already assumed that if Jaesa was being sent to be lady in waiting to a fake queen and a human no less, then Baras must really be out to humiliate and control her. What does Baras hold over her?

She’s tempted to ask Jaesa if the woman is married to Vette, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything. If it’s being kept secret, Gimrizh will gain more power by keeping the information to herself until she needs to use it. And besides, she’s certain that her hunch is right.

Jaesa clears her throat as she frees Gimrizh from the corset and her dirty chemise. “Would you like me to show you the wardrobe so that you may select your gown for the night?”

The handkerchief floats through her mind, the blue and black crossed swords. “Something in blue and black. And…” She frowns at her reflection in the mirror, examining the plain, simple smallclothes she’s wearing. “... what do I have that’s sexy?”

A blush stains Jaesa’s cheeks but she curtseys and heads to Gimrizh’s closet anyway.

Time to play the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please please let me know what you think, let me know what you liked or what you didn't like, what you're excited to see more of and what you're 'meh' about


	3. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Gimrizh schemes.

 

~*~

The crystalline ceiling above shines with moonlight. Below, Gimrizh is one glass of wine into the night and having a far better time of things than yesterday.

She’s quietly hanging off Mako’s arm, two other men chatting with them. They’re some of Mako’s friends who also engage in their occasionally bursts of border hopping into the North, and all Gimrizh had to do was ask one simple question about Mako’s early statement. They’ve been more than willing to gossip amongst themselves while she soaks it up.

“No, no,” one of her associates, a long haired man named Oren, is saying, “I’m sure Lord Baras does something to keep his borders safe.” He snickers before adding, “Perhaps he sends Lord Marr a sternly worded letter.”

Mako laughs, tossing her head back with glee, “I love how you assume Lord Baras even knows about what we do.”

“True!” Oren agrees with a grin.

“Honestly, when was the last time we saw so much as a trace of a border patrol?” That’s Mako’s other companion, a blond man named Torian. “Those things take organization to put together. You know, a leader that actually gets off his ass occasionally.”

Mako nudges Gimrizh, “It’s a wonder he actually managed to pick you up. He’s easily the laziest of the four.”

Gimrizh smiles, nods, and tries not to punch Mako in the face for that. A mantra reminding her of the importance of playing her role here continuously chants through her mind. As much as their words infuriate her, they’re valuable. This information is necessary for her survival, and she can rub it in their faces all she likes once she’s turned herself.

“As much as we all love to hate Lady Ekkage,” Oren remarks, “at least she does work to ensure the West is running.”

“Yeah,” Mako mutters under her breath, “running exactly how she wants it, the tyrant.”

Torian nods along, “The North’s borders are getting pushed back every year it seems like. Didn’t uh - who was it? Ser Ovech? Heard he was making a number of trips to Kaas City to petition Lord Baras for better security. Couple of my fellow Mandalorians were there during one of his attempts two years ago.”

“What exactly is Lord Baras’s failing?” Gimrizh asks politely. She has to be gentle in her questioning, just nudges here and there.

Never again will she underestimate just how prone to gossip vampire socialites are.

“He’s just getting old, in my opinion,” Oren replies, shrugging. “And unlike Lord Vowrawn, he’s not bothering to keep up with what’s going on in his own lands. I mean, the North has _what_? A good thirty odd parishes? Lord Baras has just been leaving everything up to the local lords. He’s too secure in his own power - been in charge for too long.” Oren laughs and waves off that last sentence, “Ignore me, I’m just complaining. Don’t mean anything by it.”

“Right,” Torian adds, a touch too quickly, “Lord Baras has all the right bloodlines. Can’t argue with that lineage.”

Mako snags a glass of wine off a passing tray as she talks. “Speaking of the right bloodlines, did you hear the rumor? Apparently Lord Nox has started going around claiming that he’s from the Kallig line. I mean, it’s nonsense but you know Lord Vowrawn. If it’s funny, he’s willing to at least indulge Lord Nox.”

“Oh,” Oren explains to Gimrizh, “Lord Nox is also from the South. At least Lord Vowrawn _actually_ does his job in hearing lineage petitions.”

“Another thing Lord Baras just leaves up to everyone else to do.” Mako downs half her glass of wine in one gulp. “No wonder half the North can’t stand him.”

There’s real bitterness in Torian’s voice as he remarks. “Yeah. Lord Baras never bothered to step in when the Kilrans lost their ancestral home and half their damn bloodline. Lord Marr would never have let that fallout happen.”

Although Gimrizh’s isn’t sure this particular line of questioning is what she’s looking for, she has to admit that her curiosity has been piqued. “What did happen?”

“Kilran line was sworn to the House of the North,” Torian explains, “An Engelmancer blew up their manor and took out half the line - including everyone in the line of succession. Lord Baras was too - well, I won’t speak that ill of him, but he didn’t put forth any effort in resolving the situation. Kilran’s leadership was too weak and spread out. Marshalls got the rest of them within a year and now they’ve all but died out.”

Pity they’re not gone entirely.

“Lord Marr has enough sense to know it’s not just a Northern problem - those Marshalls have been active near the border lately,” Mako comments absently.

Oren laughs, “Dear Mako, we both know the Marshalls have never cared about our politics or borders. They’ve only been snooping around there because of the new howlpacks forming around the border.”

She turns her nose up, “How distasteful.”

“They _are_ a serious problem,” Torian agrees, “One that must be dealt with.”

Their complaints turn to mockery. Oren’s grinning as he asks, “Have you _seen_ them? They’re such disgusting beasts, honestly. Stupid brutes, the lot of them.”

“And their _smell_!” Mako snickers, “Even when they’re pretending to be human, their scent is just off enough to expose what dumb animals they really are. Can you _believe_ they’re saying Lady Ekkage actually slept with one?”

Oren chokes, “She did _not_!”

“I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.”

“ _Please_ , she despises them as much as the rest of us. It’s not as though _you’d_ sleep with one of them, would you, dear Mako?”

“I suppose it depends how attractive the werewolf in question is.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Well, _hypothetically_ …”

With a roll of her eyes, Gimrizh murmurs her goodbyes to Mako and slinks away from the group without notice. She’s really not in the mood to hear such lascivious gossip, and it doesn’t apply to what she’s looking for. Frankly, she’s not sure exactly what she is looking for, but it’s not related to who Mako would potentially fuck.

She’s rolling the stem of a wine glass between her fingers. It’s her second glass of the night, and she’s careful not to drink it too quickly. Especially since it will probably mix poorly with the two cups of coffee that she drunk before coming down to the banquet hall. She needs to appear tipsy enough to further her aura of harmlessness, without actually becoming so inebriated that it impairs her ability to further her goals.

It’s probably around two in the morning, and the party is in full swing. The entire brood of vampires is completely occupied dancing, feasting, and of course gossiping.

There are human servants too. Unlike last night, she has enough presence of mind to notice that no one doing work with their hands is a vampire. Servers, maids, anyone carrying a tray or clearing a table is human. She doesn’t pay too much attention. If she knows their faces, she’ll notice if one of them goes missing.

A figure that catches her eye is Nadia. The woman has just shaken off an insistent dance partner and is helping herself to a tray full of chocolates.

“Nadia,” Gimrizh says as she approaches, trying to replicate the friendliness that the woman had shown her earlier. Reflect the attitude she wants to receive. “How are you enjoying the party?”

Nadia gives a drunken little curtsey, “Oh, highness, you look lovely!” She jerks her head slightly towards the dance partner she has just abandoned. “Party would be better if certain men would stop trying to talk my ear off about vintages. As if I care about all that technical blood type stuff, I’m just about taste.”

The painted smile on Gimrizh’s face manages to avoid faltering. “I can imagine how dull that must be. I had a much better time of things chatting with Mako.”

“ _Ooooh,_ did you meet her lovers?” Nadia asks with a giggle.

“Ah. I think?”

“She has two, she’s _so_ lucky. I wish I had two men to hang off of. Maybe I should find someone attractive and turn him?” There’s a clear slur to Nadia’s voice as she plops a chocolate into her mouth.

Hm. It would be good for Gimrizh to confirm her theory of how a human is turned into a vampire. While she’s pretty certain that she’s correct, it would be remiss of her if she didn’t check. “Which of her lovers did she turn?”

“Oren.” Nadia sighs wistfully. “He pulls off long hair so well.”

“How did she do it?”

“Well I think she started with showing him how to oil and braid it before she worked up to -”

“That’s not quite what - I meant, how did she turn him?”

“Oh.” Fuck, Gimrizh is lucky Nadia is so out of it right now. If she were sober, Gimrizh would have to be far more careful about broaching this topic. “She bit him first - venom you know? I’m pretty sure that first bite was more to get him nice and quiet. That’s what I do sometimes, if my meal is going to run. But he’s really good looking, even as a human, so she let him drink from her after.”

So Gimrizh was correct. Excellent. No aspect of her only barely formed plan needs to change then. “Does your venom specifically impair vocal function?”

“Huh? No, no it just makes humans really like it.” She giggles, “They can still scream if that’s what you’re into.”

“Are there any side-effects?”

“What, you mean as in pain or something? No… Oh, but if they then drink blood from a different vampire, then they’ll die. Or if a different vampire gives them a venom bite after.” Nadia picks up another glass, the wine almost sloshing over the side in her unsteady hands. “Humans are really fragile, you know?”

Then why the hell had her first answer been no? Gimrizh takes a deep breath while she resists the temptation to punch Nadia. She seems to be fighting more and more violent urges the longer she has to talk with these creatures. “Does the amount of blood matter?”

Nadia shakes her head, “No. Don’t want to - you know - accidentally kill them.”

“Is intent necessary? For example, could a vampire give a human a venom bite and then through accident the human consumes their blood later?”

“I mean, that sounds right.” Nadia gasps, excitedly bouncing on her heels, “Oh, oh are you talking about Lady Sartoris!?”

“Who?”

Spilling wine over the floor, Nadia grabs Gimrizh’s arm and tugs her around, pointing at a woman across the banquet hall. “ _Her_ ! In the green dress! When she was turned there were so many rumors that Lord Marr did it on accident cause she’s _so_ disrespectful to him sometimes and she teases him in public and - ” Nadia pauses. “Well. Actually. She’s like that to _everyone_.”

The woman in question has a head of flaming red curls, dressed elegantly in emerald green and molten bronze. But Gimrizh is more interested in the man next to her, a tall austere gentleman in a dark suit with a scar running across his face. He doesn’t drip nobility in the same way that Malavai, or the majority of the others here, do and yet she can’t help but think he’s unquestionably in charge.

“Is that Lord Marr?”

Nadia’s head bobs up and down in an enthusiastic nod. “Uh-huh!”

“He looks…” Gimrizh tries to think of an appropriate word. “Terrifying.”

“Oh he is,” she quickly confirms. “He’s my sovereign, and of course I trust his rule in the East, but even still… Well, I’d certainly never want to get on his bad side.”

 _Note to self_ , Gimrizh thinks. _Do not cross Lord Marr_.

“I should say hi!” Nadia muses, “Oh, and you should too!”

Now that’s a terrible idea. Gimrizh takes the glass of wine out of Nadia’s hand and puts it back down on the table. “I think it’d be best if you stop drinking and go find Mako instead. You’re too drunk to have a coherent conversation with someone who’s likely to give you a public dressing  down.”

Nadia only half-heartedly protests as Gimrizh pushes her in the direction of Mako and her two lovers.

She casts another glance at Lady Sartoris and Lord Marr, tempted for the briefest of moments to go up and speak with them. Then she discards the thought. The information that she’s looking for mostly concerns the North, not the East, and she doesn’t want to get on the bad side of Lord Marr. Or get lashed by Lady Sartoris’s tongue.

Up on one of the balconies, Baras is gloomily ordering one of his soldiers about, and she can’t see Draagh, which means he’s probably still sulking in a corner somewhere. Both of them have already been discarded as information sources, but she does want to make sure that neither of them suspects her or any of her activities. Especially given that both of them spoke to her about how a human is turned. Similarly, she can’t really question Malavai himself. If she wants him to play his part, he can’t have even the slightest hint of suspicion towards her.

Malavai is difficult to pick out of the crowd. He seems to have a talent for staying out of sight when he wants to. Although it takes her a minute, she does spot him.

He and a group of others are standing near one of the sculpted pillars around the edge of the room. Two women, and two men. She studies the four strangers for a moment, trying to determine who they are. One is a lady going by the jewelry alone, one who’s clearly a low ranking soldier that had only just managed to shed most of his armor for the party. She’s not certain about the other two. She’d almost say they’re military types as well, but more highly ranked perhaps?

Regardless, they seem to be disbanding, the older woman quick to hurry away from the rest of them, as though worried about being seen with the group. Interesting.

Gimrizh almost rushes after her, only she’s sure it would cause more attention than it’s worth. Instead she focuses on the rest of the group, namely the two men who head to a drinks table together. The soldier takes a seat while the other man says something before leaving.

How opportune.

Gimrizh snags a second glass of wine and weaves through the crowd towards the lone soldier, smiling and nodding at the vampires that try to catch her attention.

When she sits down across from the soldier, he tries to scramble to his feet. “Ah - excuse me, highness.”

She paints on her most reassuring smile and slides the wine towards him. “Please, don’t stand on my account. I’m just looking for a quiet place to drink - your company is welcome.”

With a sharp nod, he aquieces, sitting back down and taking the glass from her.

“What’s your name?” She asks.

“Ille. I’m a lieutenant in the Northern Army, assigned to Ser Ovech’s guard.”

“No surname?”

“I don’t have a bloodline prominent enough for one, majesty. My sire was just another lackey in Baras’s army - I’m not lucky enough to stake claim to a manor.”

Baras. He’d said _Baras_. No title.

Nadia had addressed Lord Marr and Lady Sartoris with their titles despite being very deep in her cups at the time. Even Mako and her lovers addressed Baras by his title while tittering about their blatant disrespect for his borders. That, and he’d specifically addressed Ser Ovech properly. That’s Ille’s opinion on Baras right there. How easy for her, she doesn’t even have to go looking. “What’s serving in the Northern Army like?”

A shrug. Ille rolls the glass around more than he drinks from it. “It’s alright.” He smirks ever so slightly, “Pay could be better.”

“I always thought joining the army would be interesting. I wanted to join the Luthow Riders as a girl,” Gimrizh tells him, attempting to endear herself. “I was wondering - er, you were there when I was taken, right? Or ‘soundly defeated’ might be the better term for it. For vampires, is Lord Quinn a strong fighter, or a weak one? Just so I know how embarrassed I should be about losing to him.”

“You put up a good fight,” Ille tells her. It’s refreshing - there isn’t a hint of patronization in his voice. “Can’t help that you’re human, really.”

“I didn’t so much as make him sweat.”

“Yeah. That’s cause he’s _good_.”

“How good? I’m curious.”

For a second, Ille glares furiously at his glass. “Quinn’s family line used to be Baras’s enforcers - Malavai’s had a lot of experience. He’s not as good as Draagh, unfortunately. Thank you, by the way. Seeing Draagh screaming on the ground with only one eye was the best thing I’ve seen in the past fifty years.”

“Is he better than Baras?”

Ille snorts disdainfully. “Yes.”

Gimrizh takes a slow sip of wine. It’s clear that Ille is in the mood to gripe, so she shouldn’t need to push that much. And yet he’s not chatting as easily as the others that she’s spoken to. “You said that Quinn’s line used to be enforcers - what does that mean? Why ‘used to be’, what happened?”

His look sours faster than milk left in the sun. “They’re still a political family - pretty high up the line of succession too. They also did Baras’s dirty work when he demanded it. Mostly pretty mundane stuff, honestly, and it was declining. Malavai’s been in charge of that family for a good hundred years and he’s got a reputation for being more by-the-book. They - during the Western Campaign -” Ille clears his throat painfully, a raw and hoarse sound. “A good half of the family got wiped out when Baras sent them against a bunch of Marshalls and fucking hunters.”

“Oh, yes I remember hearing about that.” Gimrizh hadn’t heard the name, but she’s pretty sure she knows what he’s talking about. “Savis sent patrolers from the North, hunters who usually work containing the mess around Oricon. I wasn’t born yet, but since it was a pretty historic cooperation between them and the Church Marshalls, it’s relatively well known. Even among humans.”

Ille just shrugs again. “Yeah.”

“And Baras sent -”

“ _Yeah_.”

“But Oricon hunters are _insane_. Unless I’m seriously underestimating the size here, it’s simply unrealistic to expect one family to take down that many hunters, let alone in cooperation with the Marshalls.” Not that Gimrizh cares, it’s only that it seems so - Well, it’s the sort of thing she would do if she were trying to get vampires killed and had the power do so.

“Got it fucking right,” Ille snarls, baring his fangs at his wine glass as though it’s caused him personal harm. “Be glad Baras barely gives a shit about you - be glad you’re not under his fucking rule - he’s a lazy, stupid, _fucking bastard who_ \- ”

A firm hand claps down on Ille’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”

Gimrizh jolts upright, staring at the newcomer - and oh, it’s the man that Ille had been talking with before. The one who knew Malavai. Excellent.

He plucks Ille from his seat and gives him a stern look. “Take care who hears your complaints. And stop frightening her highness, I’m sure she’s got enough on her plate without you spitting venom at her.”

“My apologies.” Ille gives both her and the other man a stiff bow before storming off.

The man bows to Gimrizh, far more politely. “Ser Xandir Ovech, majesty. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Let me offer my apologies for Ille’s misconduct, he is - his feelings regarding Lord Baras are rather personal. He means nothing by it. And I’m sorry that you had to hear such vulgarities.”

She gestures to the now empty seat across from her. “I took no offense. Please, join me, I’ve heard a little about you, ser, and I welcome the chance to finally meet you in person.”

There’s almost a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks as he takes the empty seat. “Only good things, I hope?”

“Just mentions of your petitions to Lord Baras as of late.”

“Ah yes.” He hesitates for a moment and then repeats, “I really am sorry about what Ille said to you.”

“All is forgiven.” She smiles pleasantly at him, trying to make her question into a tease. “So long as you tell me why he was so angry, of course. I admit he rather piqued my curiosity after such a tirade.”

Ovech opens his mouth and then slowly closes it. After a minute, he stands up, gets a drink, and then comes back. It’s not wine, it’s a small shot glass of something amber colored that he throws back, wincing slightly at the strong taste. “Sorry highness. I don’t want to be stone-cold sober for this. You’re right - he made it your business and there’s - well, there’s no harm in telling you.”

The “ _because you will be dead tomorrow night_ ” goes unspoken.

She raises her own glass to her lips. “I’m not one to judge. Remaining sober can be quite detrimental.”

“Tell me about it,” he replies. He takes a deep breath and begins. “Ille blames Lord Baras for the death of his husband. It was tragic, and I understand his mourning, but it’s been fifty years and he still can’t move on.”

“What happened?”

“It was during the Western Campaign. Lord Baras - he made a call to send out one of his vassals to intercept a group of Marshalls.”

“Only it wasn’t just Marshalls,” Gimrizh guesses, leaning back in her seat as things begin to become a bit clearer. “There were Oricon hunters with them, weren’t there? Ille was rather loquacious on the subject. I’m assuming Ille’s former husband worked for the Quinn family, then?”

His hands tighten around his empty shot glass. “Not precisely. Ille was married to Lucian Quinn, Lord Malavai’s younger brother.”

“So they had the same - what do you call it - the same sire?”

“Both were sired by the late Lord Rymar Quinn, yes, but they were brothers even before that, when they were still human.” Fondness warms Ovech’s inhuman eyes. “Lucian was the finest horseman I’ve ever seen. He had a talent for working with animals that most of our kind have to utilize familiar magics to achieve. He was no fighter though. It made no sense to send him to lead an attack on Marshalls like that.”

It’s no surprise that so many people here seem to have such dislike for Baras, if he really is that incompetent. “I’m sorry.”

Ovech doesn’t buy that for a minute. “No need to pretend for my sake, majesty. Although you would have liked Lucian, I think. He was ill-suited for this life. A bleeding heart of a man if I ever met one. Too unrestrained to be a high noble, too much dislike of violence to be a soldier. For all he disliked soldiers, he loved Ille.”

“How did Malavai take his death?”

“You know, majesty? I’m still not sure. He got quieter. He got colder. Ille lashes out, disobeys Lord Baras - Malavai continues to follow Lord Baras’s orders to the letter. It’s been fifty years and I can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken Lucian’s name since then.”

Now that is interesting. “Ille introduced himself without a surname. Did Malavai remove him from the family after Lucian’s death?”

Ovech shakes his head. “Lord Malavai and Ille have disagreed on many subjects over the years, but Malavai isn’t petty like that. As far as I know, Ille ceased to use his husband’s name after Lucian passed. I can only assume that the pain of it outweighs the political gain.”

“That’s understandable. Is that why he works for you, then?”

“What do you mean by that, highness?”

“If Ille has no qualms voicing such disapproval of Lord Baras and simultaneously refuses to utilize any connections an impressive family name might have gotten him, it must be a challenge for him to work for anyone who doesn’t understand what he’s been through,” Gimrizh muses. “Malavai follows Lord Baras and doesn’t have a similar problem -”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Ovech quickly interjects. “Lord Malavai doesn’t follow Lord Baras for any sort of gain.”

“Then why?”

“As much as you might think otherwise, he’s an honorable man, majesty.”

Although her opinion of ‘honor’ and ‘vampires’ fitting in the same sentence is markedly different from Ovech’s, she admits that she can see what he means. Malavai had fought her fairly, he’d honored Mancer Vette’s rules when he could likely have gotten away with breaking them. Even when he’d caught her escaping, he’d simply explained to her where her plan went wrong, as though he was being polite. She remembers Malavai’s voice, almost offended when he had to clarify - “ _I don’t hunt for sport."_

She contemplates the glass of wine in her hand, and then drinks the entire thing against her better judgement. It’s not in her nature to trick an honorable man - but she’ll do it. She’ll do whatever is necessary. “Surely some part of him must hate Lord Baras for what happened? Or if not hate, at least blame?”

“Lord Baras was well within his right to do what he did.”

“So what, he’s not angry at all?”

“Lord Malavai will do as honor demands,” Ovech replies stiffly. “You can count on that, majesty. Lord Baras might not be considered the most active sovereign, but he has broken no laws and he hasn’t shamed the North.”

That might be honorable but it doesn’t particularly help Gimrizh at the moment. Malavai is apparently determined to avoid scandal despite it seeming to naturally following him. “Do you… I have no polite way of asking this. Ille seemed overly suspicious of the circumstances surrounding Lucian’s death. I know part of that is grief, but is there any merit to these suspicions?”

His eyes widen ever so slightly before he carefully closes off his emotions. “There was - nothing conclusive was ever found. As much as I’m sure Ille might spout conspiracy theories, it was nothing more than an unfortunate accident. It was highly unlikely that Lord Baras would have had advanced knowledge about the presence of Oricon hunters.”

Of course, Ille had suggested no such thing, but it’s interesting to know that Gimrizh’s guess had hit rather close to the mark. She can’t help but wonder if nothing turned up because Baras truly hadn’t sabotaged his own forces, of if it’s because Malavai didn’t press the issue. She could see him trusting in Baras’s loyalty to the North in such a manner. It’s almost an endearing trait - if only he weren’t helping to ensure her death.

“I understand,” she says politely, “Thank you for assuaging my curiosity. I’m sorry if I dragged up any unpleasant memories.”

“Not to worry, highness. I wouldn’t have said anything if it would cause me pain.” He stands and offers her his hand. “Would you care to join me for another drink? Since we seem to have both thoroughly finished ours.”

She opens her mouth to accept and then spots the figure of Jaesa Willsaam ducking into an alcove away from the ballroom. That’s _far_ more interesting. “Maybe some other time, Ser Ovech. Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

“Of course.” He gives her a final bow and she excuses herself as quickly as possible.

It takes her a second to locate Jaesa again, as her lady in waiting has completely vanished, but Gimrizh sees Mancer Vette heading towards the same hallway off the main hall. She winds through the tables and lurks unobtrusively by the alcove secluding the two women. She presses her ear to the wall and waits.

“- did you know I would be here?” That’s Jaesa’s voice, a soft, heartfelt whisper that Gimrizh has to strain to hear.

Vette is easier to pick out. “I’ve been putting out feelers for you in the North and West for - well, since I last saw you. Finally got some substantial rumors that Baras was demanded to give proof you’re still alive and that he’d picked this year to do it. I worked my way into their trade and their trust - and it got me an invitation.”

“... You never gave up on me.”

“Oh, my love, of course not. I could _never_.”

There’s a long pause - Gimrizh is pretty sure she can hear the two kissing. Then Vette finally starts talking again. “I have Pierce with me, we can intercept you as soon as the party ends and then we’ll be free. I can’t get you out of the Citadel - though I can help disrupt a convoy heading north long enough to help you.”

“Do we have anyone in the West we could contact?”

“No, love, we’d be _free_. I can’t get you out of Baras’s clutches legally, but if we vanish then he can’t control you anymore. We’d run.”

“Oh Vette,” Jaesa sighs, loving and sad at once, “I love you with all my heart but I cannot abandon my people.”

“ _They_ abandoned _you_.”

“They didn’t have a choice, none of us did. They got stranded with Ekkage and I with Baras. I have to help them. It’s my duty. Surely there’s something else we can do besides run, if we stay, if we fight this, if we fight Baras -”

“ _Sssssh_!” Vette hisses, “Not so loud.”

Dead silence.

Gimrizh swears under her breath. Damn that stupid aura of silence. Just when things were getting interesting.

“Having a nice night? Or, early morning, technically?”

She looks up and internally groans. “Pierce. Lovely to see you again.”

“Uh-huh.” He leans against the stone wall, crossing his arms and settling into a guard post, making it clear that he’s not going anywhere. Damn it to hell but Vette picked a fucking good bodyguard. A Mancer’s trade must be very lucrative indeed to afford a round the clock guard like Pierce, especially given that he’s willing to go into a manor full of vampires for the job. She wonders what Vette’s paying him.

If he were a vampire, she’d make an effort at pretending politeness. “You know, I thought you were a decent sort of man when I first met you but now… well. I can’t understand what makes one of us humans turn around and work for a dryad and a bunch of vampires.”

He doesn’t so much as flinch. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with the Mancer’s ancestry when you were doing business with her.”

“I don’t have a problem with it. I’m simply curious as to why your loyalties seemingly have no consideration for the fact that us humans are hunted by near every creature of the night - and as much as I used to like Mancer Vette, you can’t deny that dryads have never helped lessen the slaughter.”

Still nothing. Why can’t she get a rise out of him? What’s she missing? Is Pierce just that good at his job?

“Eh,” he says with a loose shrug, “Not all fangs are that bad.”

“So you’re fond of Jaesa, then?”

“Didn’t mention Jaesa. Can’t I just be speaking generally here?”

“Why of course you could be.” Gimrizh flatly agrees before repeating, “So what makes you fond of Jaesa Willsaam?”

He glances around the hall with an experienced eye as he searches for anyone who might be eavesdropping. She has to hand it to him. He’s good. The ability to scan a room so casually as to not make anyone think he’s looking - well, he certainly has that down. “Nothing insidious, despite whatever you might be implying here. Jaesa’s a good person. Sweet. And I don’t often say that about her kind.”

“You can’t have met her in person.” Not if Jaesa has been under Baras’s control for as long as Vette seems to be implying.

That almost surprises him. “No, but she’s been in regular correspondence with the Mancer for… well, for as long as I’ve known the Mancer. I can get a pretty good read on her personality from her letters.”

“How long have you known the Mancer, exactly?”

His face is blank as he replies, “A while.”

“Is the pay good?”

“You could say that.”

Damn this man. Why can’t he give her a fucking straight answer? She’s too used to these gossipy vampires who are oh so eager to spill other people’s secrets. “Does Vette have something on you that keeps you in her service?”

Something in the slow way he turn to look at her makes her think she’s actually touched on something with that. “What, you think she’s blackmailing me or something?”

“I never said that.” And yet she’s pretty sure that’s closest to the truth. If not blackmail, perhaps some sort of deal that isn’t inherently financial. There must be something more than just a paycheck keeping him in service to Vette. This sort of loyalty seems too deep to be financially motivated - especially if he’s actually become attached to the Mancer’s wife. “Does she pay you coin or service?”

That hits the mark. She can see his eyes widen ever so slightly. So it’s not just gold the Mancer’s paying him. Unfortunately, there are myriad services a chronomancer can provide, so it’s really impossible for Gimrizh to narrow it down. What in heaven’s name would a bodyguard need a Mancer’s services for? If Vette had helped him craft a weapon similar to Gimrizh’s sword, she’d understand, but she hasn’t seen Pierce with anything like that - and if he had a weapon like that, a bodyguard would be a fool not to bring it to a gathering of vampires on this scale.

Pierce chuckles, trying to brush it off. “You’re a nosy bastard, aren’t you?”

If he would cooperate for long enough to gossip then she wouldn’t need to be nosy, now would she? “Can’t a girl be curious?”

“Sure can,” he replies, “don’t mean I have to answer.” He straightens up and cracks his knuckles, a series of pops that makes her wince just by listening. “Well would you look at that, the Mancer’s done. I’d say it was great talking to you but it mostly wasn’t so - anyway. Just keep in mind the Mancer’s offer. You’ve still got time to accept. No one will think less of you if you take her up on that.”

Quiet sound suddenly re-emerges from the corridor as Mancer Vette steps out, alone. A smile is deliberated on her face as she looks at Gimrizh. “Majesty. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I was merely chatting with Pierce,” Gimrizh replies, colder than she intended. It doesn’t matter, regardless, she’s certain Pierce will tell the Mancer exactly what she was doing as soon as the two of them are alone. “My apologies if I interrupted anything. And before you ask - no. I’m still uninterested in your offer.”

She gives a short nod to the both of them and then leaves.

No destination in mind, just a determination to get away from them before Pierce starts getting even more suspicious. Besides, she doesn’t feel as though she knows enough about the Mancer to risk confronting her about what was said with the suddenly mysterious Jaesa Willsaam.

Oh. Gimrizh _has_ heard that name before. And here she’d been told there weren’t any Willsaams left, that they’d been hunted to the ends of that line. Pity that High Marshall Elara didn’t get all of them.

Whatever Pierce might say about Jaesa’s personality - the woman’s still a vampire. Still content to let Gimrizh die.

Why in heaven’s name would Gimrizh give a damn about the woman after that.

With a quick mental calculation, she determines that it’s been long enough since her last drink for her to have another. She needs a damn drink. No wonder Malavai suggested she spend her last days in a state of constant inebriation - if she has to be surrounded by vampires and their guests, being drunk is her only outlet. Even if she weren’t slated for death, she’d need to be five drinks in at a minimum to deal with all of them.

Curse of all curses, Vowrawn is getting himself a drink at the same time as her.

“Enjoying the party, highness?” he asks, holding up a glass in a false toast to her, clawed fingers wrapped around the stem in a way that surely isn’t designed to make fear spark in her chest and yet.

She tries to extract herself as gracefully as possible. “It’s wonderful, my lord. If you’ll excuse me I need to…”

What could she need to do?

“Oh of course, I completely understand the persistence of dance partners,” Vowrawn agrees with a grin. “Sometimes it almost makes me regret never marrying.”

“As you say, my lord,” she says demurely.

Damn it, now she has to go dance with one of these fucking vampires. She drains her glass quick enough to make her head spin for a second before clearing. Then she hastily looks around the room for someone to dance with.

The dawn is fast approaching, light shall probably burst through the glass ceiling in an hour or so, and consequently the ballroom is not as packed as it was earlier. Oh, it’s still bursting at the seams with vampires, but she can tell that some have disappeared into private rooms throughout the course of the night. She’s kept track of some of the couples’ faces, should she need the blackmail at a later hour.

She can sense Vowrawn’s eyes burning a hole in her back.

Immediately, she seeks out Malavai, because at least he can be counted on to not be a total ass for a brief few moments while she ditches Vowrawn’s attention. She knows she needs to speak with him at some point tonight anyway - even though she hadn’t intended for it to be now, she supposes it’s as good a time as any.

Malavai has a sour frown curling his lips downward as he argues with the lady Gimrizh remembers him speaking with earlier. It’s a tightly controlled argument, she can tell that much, especially given the look on the lady’s face as she rants - either at or in commiseration with him, it’s impossible to tell.

There’s dead silence around them as she approaches - which perhaps tells her more about what they were discussing than anything else. It drops once she approaches, and it’s almost funny how startled he is by her appearance, his eyes widening, the blue inside the gold almost vanishing. Good. She didn’t dress in such a daringly cut blue gown with black lace for nothing.

“Ah, hello majesty,” the lady says with a smile that refuses to be sheepish at their secrecy. She bows, just the smallest and most practiced hint of sarcasm in the movement. “Lady Maranel Thrask, at your service.”

The woman is beautiful in the way all vampires are - a cold danger behind any loveliness. Dark hair is pinned up in waving curls and she practically drips gold. Delicate chains of the stuff weave through her hair and adorn almost every exposed bit of skin, even spidering across her deep purple dress. She’s Southern then - Gimrizh has noted the symbol of a gold crown filled with purple flowers that’s pinned to Vowrawn’s cravat and she’s not stupid enough to pretend she can’t figure out it’s meaning.

Gimrizh almost turns to look at Malavai and then doesn’t.

That voice she’d heard him speak to in the library earlier - it’s exactly the same voice she’s hearing now. Instead she smiles flirtatiously at the woman and asks, “I was wondering if you’d do me the honor of a dance, Lady Thrask?”

“The honor is all mine, majesty,” she accepts, her deep purple lips forming a silent ‘o’ in surprise for a moment. Then she smirks like a knife. “And please, call me Mara.”

“Then I insist you call me Gimrizh.”

And that, she thinks towards Malavai, is check. _Your move_.

Her arm around Mara’s, the lady leads her onto the dance floor. Mara takes her waist and directs Gimrizh’s hand to rest on her shoulder. To be fair, Gimrizh had thought that she would eventually need to learn to dance, she just hadn’t anticipated these circumstances. It’s easier than she thought - on no part of her own.

Mara leads, sweeping Gimrizh along in time with the music, and her skirts are long enough to conceal the many missteps her unskilled feet make.

“You should see the look on Lord Quinn’s face,” Mara remarks with a smirk as they dance.

“If I took notice of him, it would rather defeat the point, don’t you think?”

“Hm, yes. Lovely gown, by the way. I ah - am fond of the color.”

“Oh really?” Gimrizh puts on a show of feigned ignorance. “I chose it quite at random, I assure you.”

The music swells and Mara spins her around, making Gimrizh dizzy for a moment before she regains her footing. “So tell me,” Mara asks lightly once the both of them are back on solid ground. “How are you enjoying my Lord Vowrawn’s party so far? Since I had rather a larger hand in the proceedings than I might have liked, I’m curious to see what result my efforts have yielded.”

“You set this up?”

“I’m Lord Vowrawn’s senechal, and while he’s more involved in party plannings than his fellows, he still leaves most of the logistics to me.” Ah. Gimrizh could tell there was something of a politician about this woman. It's the same with Malavai. Nobility, but not lazy. A person aware of how best to utilize their power.

Gimrizh drips all her grace into the compliment, “It's fine work. No human party I've been to can compare. I haven't the words for the Citadel’s splendor.”

“Flatterer.”

As they dance, Mara occasionally nods and smiles at those they pass in greeting - her fellow lords and ladies, perhaps. For Gimrizh it represents a chance. She’d already ruled out using Malavai to gather much information and she can’t make any of the Four too suspicious of her actions. As helpful as Mako and Nadia had been they aren’t quite as well versed on things beyond scandals. But Mara does have a higher rank.

The only complication is that Mara is neither drunk nor stupid, from what Gimrizh can tell. The free flowing drink at this party has so far helped ease her questions and now she’s lost that advantage.

Perhaps a more innocuous question then. “May I ask - how do you know Lord Quinn?”

For the slightest of moments Mara hesitates before she replies, casual as anything, “Oh, we both have similar opinions about politics. I suppose the best way to put it is that the two of us and a few friends get together once every year or so at these parties and gripe about the state of things.” She laughs it off, “If you ever met our group you would think the lot of us to be curmudgeons of the worst sort.”

A group that includes Ser Ovech and Ille, if Gimrizh’s guess is correct. So that was what that little gathering earlier had been about. Unfortunately she can’t tell if it’s as insidious as she’d like to believe or as mundane as Mara makes it out to be.

“Ah, I see. Forgive me, I’m hardly lucky enough to be used to the circles nobility creates.” It’s not as though Gimrizh can’t figure it out, but if she can play the inexperienced card, it’ll work to her advantage. “I don’t mean to waste your time with silly questions.”

Mara laughs and spins her around in a perfect match to the music’s tempo. “It wasn’t a silly question. May I ask what your human status was?”

“If by that you mean my job - I’m a weaponsmith. Well, I say that, but I assure you I did my fare share of simple smithing in my younger days. There’s no shortage of horses needing shoes or farmers needing shovels. Still, my claim to fame lies in weapons.”

“How interesting. I can see why you’d have little experience with us lofty nobles then - feel free to ask me any so-called ‘silly’ questions you may have. I promise I shall not laugh or judge you for them.”

Oh, now Mara’s practically doing Gimrizh’s job for her. How very kind.

For appearance's sake, Gimrizh pretends to hesitate just a little before she goes ahead and asks, “Well, I was wondering. When Lord Baras and his entourage apprehended me, Lord Quinn took orders from him. I understand that Lord Baras controls the entire North, but - well as you said, you and Lord Quinn aren’t thrilled with the current political situation. What’s to stop Lord Quinn - or you - or anyone with title from asking Lord Baras to step down?”

“Step down?” Mara snickers, “It doesn’t work like that. I know you humans have ways of sending the High Priests packing if you don’t like them, but Lord Baras is nobility as well as the highest authority.”

Based on succession then. Damn, Gimrizh had been hoping it’d been similar to the Church instead. Titled humans tend to hold more financial power than political, as although the nobility used to hold complete sway over the land, the rise of creatures of the night has put the Church in place as the highest power there is. Given that the angel’s blessing is one of the few things that keeps the dead down, and high castle walls lose their effectiveness without a holy ward stone - it is a death sentence in many parishes for even a rich lord to go against the will of the Church.

Presumably since the vampires actively oppose the Church and have no similar structure to it, the nobility never lessened in power. Shame, that.

“If you’re Lord Vowrawn’s senechal, does that make you his successor?”

Something slightly dark flickers behind Mara’s golden eyes. A woman with ambitions - Gimrizh can sympathize. Or, well, she could if Mara weren’t undeniably a vampire. “No. He’s named his progeny, Haresh, as his successor. My bloodline has few substantive ties to the Southern throne.”

“What about Lord Quinn?”

Mara glances briefly across the dance floor, probably at the lord in question. Gimrizh refuses to look as well. “Lord Baras similarly named his progeny as heir. That would regrettably be Draagh, the man you have rather beautifully maimed. I really must thank you for that.”

A sharp laugh works its way past Gimrizh’s lips. “Everyone seems to be grateful that I took his eye. I take it poor Draagh isn’t popular?”

“He’s as popular as Baras with the upper class,” Mara admits. And given how everyone seems to dislike Baras either outwardly or with slightly more subtlety, that says quite a lot. “Mostly Draagh curries favor with his fellow soldiers. There isn’t really a lower class in our society - we use human labor, as your kind is more suited to it.” - _Don’t punch her_ \- “But those with little rank predominantly serve in our armies. Draagh is one of the few members of the nobility who fights alongside them, and he’s respected and liked for that.”

Gimrizh remembers the Vildenwald, how the guards had rushed to protect Draagh after he fell, the easy way he had worked with the soldiers to circle her and cut her off. “Is Draagh considered to be a strong combatant?”

“He used to be.” A wicked smirk splits Mara’s face. “I’m certain his reputation - along with his respect among the soldiers - has diminished somewhat after being so permanently marred by a human. I don’t know how exactly you did that to him, but it was the worst defeat I’ve ever heard of him taking.” She pauses and then adds, “You may want to watch out for him. He wouldn’t usually do anything to disrupt my Lord Vowrawn’s parties, but you did deal him a severe blow. I would be cautious for the rest of the party, if I were you.”

Fortunately he seems to have been leashed quite thoroughly by Baras. “He already tried. I doubt he will again.”

“Poor Draagh indeed.”

“Will you indulge my curiosity for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

“If Lord Draagh lost his place in line - either through death or defeat or whatever your society considers greatly offensive - who would be next? How does the line of succession progress?”

Mara purses her lips as she thinks, “I suppose it’d be up for debate. A half dozen higher lords - Lord Quinn among them - could claim enough of a blood connection to the Baras line to secure their position as his heir. It would be a challenge for any of them to usurp Draagh’s place, but it could be done I suppose.”

“Do you wish someone would do it?” Gimrizh asks, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“My loftiest fantasies are hardly attainable, and so there is little point in voicing them aloud.”

That’s a ‘yes’, then. “For what it’s worth, I enjoy the company of neither Lord Draagh nor Lord Baras. Your theoretical dislike of either won’t be mentioned by me. As I mentioned, Baras ordered my capture - I am far from his biggest fan.”

An understanding passes between the two of them. “Of course,” Mara slowly replies. “Forgive me if I was being insensitive about that.”

The music switches from one tune to another and Gimrizh drops Mara’s hands. She’s spent long enough here - this dance is over. “Not at all.” Her reassurance is empty but it’s only polite to offer it. “I’m afraid this is my last dance, Lady Mara.”

“I hope to dance with you again sometime.”

“Please excuse me.”

Just before Gimrizh slips away, Mara reaches out and latches thin fingers around her wrist. Her golden eyes burn with something more intense than honesty. She tugs Gimrizh closer - close enough for that all important three feet of silence. “For what it’s worth,” she whispers, “Lord Vowrawn is _wasting_ you.”

Mara’s grip is suddenly a brand upon Gimrizh’s flesh. She yanks her arm away, wrenching her shoulder in the process.

Does Mara suspect? No, she couldn’t. Could Mara be her new target - of course not, not if the idea is in her mind already, not if it would risk Gimrizh’s chance to trick her into it. And there’s no way that Mara would willing turn her, no matter what political opinions she might have. If she hasn’t don't anything about Lord Vowrawn by now, she won’t go against her lord for one simple human.

“Don’t - ” Gimrizh takes a deep breath and steps backward, away from the dance floor. “Just don’t. I have enough - I don’t need vampire sympathy.”

A banal smile slides across Mara’s face, “I meant nothing by it. Enjoy the evening, majesty.”

Gimrizh flees to the side of the ballroom with as much dignity as she can muster. From now on she needs to steer clear of Mara. While she can’t be certain exactly what the woman meant by being ‘wasted’, if Mara has any ideas in her head about somehow preserving Gimrizh beyond the party, Gimrizh must do everything she can to avoid rousing the woman’s suspicions. Even the slightest misstep in front of her could be devastating.

And as it is, Gimrizh has only a day and a half left.

She already spent enough time on her one useless escape attempt, she can make no further mistakes. Time presses in on her, wrapping itself tightly around her ribs like a vice.

No - she needs to focus - what next needs to be done?

Gimrizh sweeps by a drinks table and downs a glass of wine in three gulps. The sweet red turns to vinegar on her tongue after the first luxurious sip. First things first, she needs to - she needs to get her hands to stop shaking. Which means she also needs to put her empty glass down and stop gripping the stem tightly enough to break it into a thousand sharp pieces.

Her eyes rake across the ballroom until she latches onto Malavai’s visage. Next step then. She’s tipsy and alone, how much more does a woman need to get a man into bed anyway? And besides, it isn’t as though a single one of these damn vampires would mind if Malavai roughed her up a bit - so long as a bite mark isn’t flaunted. Not as though they aren’t planning on doing the same thing to her themselves.

She drags a hand through her short hair and then makes her way across the hall.

Apparently Malavai is just about as fond of this party as she is, if the way he’s sulking in a corner and quietly nursing a drink is anything to go by. A flicker of surprise flashes through his gold eyes as he looks up at her, but she assumes that most of the shock value her choice in dress induces has already worn off.

“Malavai,” she greets, a half-intentional slur in her voice. “Enjoying the party?”

He turns his nose up in the most haughty manner imaginable. “I see _you_ have been. You reek of wine.”

How rude. “I believe it was you who suggested I spend my time drunk in the first place.”

“To be frank, I didn’t think you would take that suggestion in earnest.” There’s a softness in those words that she hadn’t been expecting and he won’t meet her eyes. He suggested it and he has the gall to be disappointed in her? Bastard. “And I certainly didn’t expect you to throw yourself at Lady Thrask in such a manner. As is the case with everyone here, she can be dangerous even when good tempered.”

Gimrizh slips her hand into the crook of his arm. “Is there someone else you’d prefer me to throw myself at?”

His lips form a silent ‘o’ for a long minute and then he leads her away from the dance hall, “I can think of a few suggestions.”

Well. That was easy.

“I liked Mara,” Gimrizh remarks, not thinking her words through as well as she should be. Malavai’s guiding her up a set of stairs and she has to keep a closer on eye on making sure she doesn’t trip. “She’s a fucking vampire and I hate her, but she isn’t as stupid as everyone else here is. And she’s an excellent dancer,” she adds flirtatiously, “I already know you’re a skilled dance partner, of course.”

“Lady Thrask will literally eat you alive.”

“Couldn’t the same be said of you?”

“Yes, it could be. That is exactly my point.”

Perhaps she wants him to eat her. At least a little bit. Just enough to enable her to turn herself and save her skin. “I’m a dead woman walking, Malavai. What does it matter if I get a couple of your people hungry for my blood? They’re going to have what they want in less than two days as it is.”

“Spending your last hours alive in misery is a poor fate for anyone to be subjected to.”

“If you actually gave a shit - “

“Hate me for not risking my neck helping you if you wish. As you have so eloquently pointed out, I don’t care.”

The door Malavai stops in front of is the one that leads to Gimrizh’s own chambers. Somehow she’d assumed that he’d prefer to fuck in his own quarters, but no matter, she doesn’t really care either way. Her rooms are empty, at least, and far enough above the main party that the sound of music is pleasantly faded.

Malavai practically drops her on the bed. “Go to sleep.”

“Excuse me?” Her jaw hangs open as he walks away. “I thought - But - “

“You’re drunk. I can smell it on you, to say nothing of how you’ve been acting. At a guess, you haven’t eaten much, if anything, in the past twelve hours. You clearly haven’t slept since you arrived here.” Malavai explains this all with a stern countenance, his arms crossed firmly across his chest. “I am not going to fuck you, not when you’re like this. Go to sleep, Gimrizh, at least for a few hours.”

The worst thing is that he’s right. She is a mess. And yet she feels as though there is no time to sleep, no time to rest - she can’t stop working. Even though rationally, she knows sleep will allow her to execute her plans all the better when she wakes, part of her mind is convinced that she will not wake up. Or that she’ll drift off and wake a mere few minutes before she is scheduled to be eaten.

She doesn’t think she can talk him into this, but she’ll still try. “I thought - You agreed so readily down in the ballroom.”

“I’ve seen how you flirt when sober,” he reminds her. “I can understand your desperation but I will not indulge it.” He pauses to snuff out the brightest candelabra in her room, leaving only the low flickering light of the fire. “Sleep. I’ll have someone wake you in a few hours.”

He’s out the door before she can think of a reply.

Outside the doors, she can hear him call a guard over and instruct the man to watch over her door while she rests -

“Her highness is not to be disturbed. Send for her lady in waiting if she does not wake before noon.”

“But - my lord Vowrawn might - er - What if she - that is to say - ”

The sound of Malavai snapping his fingers at the man is sharp and clear, even through the wooden door. “Focus, Jillins! I shall inform Lord Vowrawn myself that she is not to be disturbed if he decides to seek out her company. Surely you can at least manage to follow such a simple message.”

“Uh - yes ser. My lord. Yes, my lord.”

Gimrizh’s eyelids grow heavy as the soft, elegant blankets beckon her to lie down. Damn her for picking such an honorable mark.

~*~

Soft firelight flickers in front of Gimrizh’s sore eyes as someone lightly shakes her out of her slumber.

“...’n a minute…” she grumbles into a pillow. Ugh, how late did she sleep? No wonder Tremel’s bothering to actually kick her out of bed, she must have missed opening hours or something. It must be late, he’s still shaking her.

Why is her pillow so soft - and is she wearing a corset -

Cold emptiness seeps into her as her eyes properly open. Of course it isn’t Tremel waking her now. She’s not home. She’ll likely never be home again.

“Majesty,” Jaesa’s voice says quietly, “It’s shortly before noon. You should wake, before the day passes you by.”

Energy, half fear and half determination, shoots through Gimrizh as though she’s struck by a bolt of lightning. Time is running out on her. While she slept, hours passed her by, leaving her with precious few left, and a great deal of work that she must accomplish in the short time remaining.

The soft velvet of the blankets crunches beneath her fingers as she pushes herself up, a deceptively pleasant luxury, like everything else in this damn manor. A stiffness lies in her limbs from having slept in an evening gown. The moment she sits up fully, Jaesa immediately pulls her hands back and stops shaking her. Gimrizh rubs the sleep from her eyes. “I’m awake. Th-thank you. For rousing me.”

Jaesa awkwardly steps back, “Ah… you’re welcome? Highness?”

“You said it’s near noon, yes?”

“That’s right.” Jaesa gestures to a platter on the low table, “I brought you some food, I thought you might be hungry. And there’s tea with willowbark, to relieve any pain if your head aches.”

The dim light makes Gimrizh’s temples throb more than she’d care to admit. A night spent nothing more substantive than wine doesn’t make for a pleasant wake up. And a wine induced hangover is its own special sort of awful. Her stomach protests as she stands up, making her wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to wait before eating anything, lest it come right back up again.

She looks in the mirror and a person resembling a drowned cat stares back at her.

“Shall I help you look more presentable, highness?” Jaesa asks politely.

Gimrizh just nods, tugging at her mussed hair and trying not to notice the fact that she smells of sweat, dust, and wine.

In record time, Jaesa’s drawn a hot bath for her, pouring sweet smelling oils and salts into the water until the entire washroom smells fragrant and lovely as a rose garden. The crumpled dress can’t be removed fast enough, in Gimrizh’s opinion. Did she spill a drink on herself last night?

Stepping into the warm bath is utterly sublime. The hot water leeches the pain from her limbs, soothing the cut on her thigh and the bruises that splatter her body like paint from her various fights in the past few days. She stretches her arms above her head, and oh is it a joy to not be so constrained by a tight dress. Something in her shoulder cracks wonderfully and she moans aloud at the sensation.

“May I assist with your hair?” Jaesa asks quietly.

Gimrizh almost denies her, but there’s something reaching in Jaesa’s eyes, something lonely. As if her words are an unspoken offer of truce. “If you wish,” she says instead, “I won’t deny that your help would be appreciated.”

A small stool is tugged across the bathroom floor so that Jaesa may sit behind Gimrizh’s head and try to bring order to her dripping wet hair.

Having someone else’s hands on her scalp, working soaps and perfumes into her hair, is a strange scenario for Gimrizh. She keeps having to stop herself from smacking Jaesa’s hands away. It’s strange - as much as she despises Jaesa on principle, she can’t deny that Pierce’s words had a ring of truth to them. The woman has an air of kindness to her. A softness amid her steel. Pity that she’s a detestable vampire, really.

“Why did you marry the Mancer?” Gimrizh asks, the thought absently flickering through her mind.

Jaesa squeaks and her hands freeze in Gimrizh’s hair. “I - That is to say - “ She clears her throat a few times until she can finally give her words a clearer voice. “I married her because I love her. Surely that must be the case, yes?”

“Well, obviously.” Gimrizh rolls her eyes. “How did you meet her? How did she court you? Forgive my questions - I have no friends who have married, nor have I ever considered the prospect myself. I’m curious about you and Mancer Vette.”

“I met her a scant year after my sire turned me,” Jaesa begins. Gimrizh doesn’t need to turn around to see - she can hear the wistful smile on Jaesa’s face. “I was young, and uncertain of my place in the West and in this new life. Vette was an apprentice when I met her. It was just supposed to be business but I begged my sire to let me return for all other business conducted with Vette’s teacher. She taught me how to be myself while still being a vampire. It… it saved me. Within another year we were married.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About seventy years ago.”

“So you were together for - what, a whole twenty years before the Western Campaign?”

“It was more off and on than that, unfortunately. No one knew we were married and there were only so many excuses to be made.” Jaesa sighs with longing. She’s braiding Gimrizh’s hair now, though there isn’t much to braid, just absent minded plaits that she undoes as soon as they’re made. “We thought we’d have forever. Time seemed so… so slow. Steady. A hundred years perhaps and then my sire would step down - and I could take the Western throne and reveal my wife at my side. It seemed so short a time to wait when we were so certain our love would never wither.”

Gimrizh wishes for such a long life. She’ll have it. She will. “And then Lord Baras - ”

The softness in Jaesa fades just a touch. “Yes. Then Lord Baras. I do not know what you have been told about the Western Campaign, but - “ Jaesa pauses, “I would not speak of it. Suffice to say, I have been sundered from my love for many long decades and at times thought I would never see her again, though I longed for her with my every breath and though I knew she sought me out as I did her.”

Gimrizh lays her hand over Jaesa’s. “She loves you.”

“I know.”

Fifty long years Vette has spent, working her way into vampire society, climbing the ladders, all for a chance, a desperate chance that she might see Jaesa again.

Gimrizh isn’t jealous, not exactly, as she has never longed for romance. She just wishes that she had someone who cared for her enough to save her from this damn place. Only she has no one. She has been solitary for too many years, thrown herself completely into her work so that she, an orphaned, penniless woman with no title or prospects, might have a chance to live a life without fear of starvation. What time was there for friends, for love, for family?

Her fingers rest on the edge of the tub, dripping a steady beat of water onto the tiled floor. Jaesa is a woman meant for tender love, the tragic tales of romance that always end with happiness, the sort of stories that print shops always sell out of as soon as the latest serials are off the presses.

And Gimrizh’s story is not that - hers is nothing. Not even a story at all, but a scream caught in the darkness.

Ugh, she cannot wallow like this. Jaesa is a privileged vampire that will live to see decade after decade. There is no room for pity in Gimrizh’s heart, not for anyone in this manor. If she wants to see herself last longer than tomorrow night, she needs to crush any possible sympathy for these vampires and get to work.

So what if that is selfish? So what if she has always thought of her own survival before the worries of others? She can do nothing if she is dead.

She stands out of the water, shaking the last vestiges of Jaesa’s braids from her hair. “Please fetch me a towel. I’ll dry myself off while you prepare another dress - the same colors as the last, if possible.”

“Yes, highness.” Jaesa hands her the fluffiest towel she’s ever felt in her life and leaves.

Water still drips from her hair as Gimrizh dries herself, the steam filling the room and keeping her warm. There’s another mirror in here, fogged over, cloudy, yet still clear enough for her to see her own reflection. Without the plush gown and elegant jewelry that she’d been draped in, and without the makeup and powders, she can see herself.

Or what’s left of herself anyway.

Her wrists, her knees, all mottled with bruises that have yet to begin fading. A nasty purple mark blossoms under her ribs. Scratches litter her forearms, a slash of her own making on her thigh, and marks on her neck from Malavai’s teeth still remain. With the dark circles under her eyes she looks like fruit left to rot by the roadside.

She traces the many blemishes with her fingertips. This place has marred her - injured her body, made her give her own blood, sunken her eyes and hollowed her cheeks - what else will she be forced to sacrifice before she saves herself?

It’s easy enough to hide what’s happened to her though.

Jaesa cloaks her in satin the color of a cloudy sky, wrings the last dregs of moisture from her hair and brushes it till it shines, paints makeup under her eyes to make her look less than half dead, ties a laced collar around her neck to cover the marks there. When Jaesa’s done, Gimrizh looks far more presentable. A pale cameo rests against the hollow of her throat, bobbing when she swallows back her fear to replace it with determination.

“I know none of you vampires follow the church, but this is a miracle worked if I’ve ever seen one,” Gimrizh jokes.

An open smile graces Jaesa’s face, such a simple thing transforming her into a glowing and beautiful wonder. “Thank you for such high praise.”

“You’re dismissed,” Gimrizh adds softly, “I likely won’t need you till later this evening - go and enjoy the party until I send for you.”

“Yes, highness.”

Gimrizh pours herself a cup of the willowbark tea and nibbles on the food Jaesa’s brought while she considers her next move. Midday and early afternoon seem to be when the manor is at its quietest, which means this might be a most opportune time to make a more subtle move, should one be necessary.

Whatever happens, her hand in the events to come cannot be seen until she has secured own life.

The cup of tea scalds her throat as she tosses it back. It’ll take a bit for the pain to fade, but a bit of food and drink has already done wonders on her tired body.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Enter.”

The man that enters is presumably the guard that Malavai has posted at her door, Jillins, she thinks. “Ah, highness - er - Lady Ekkage has requested to speak with you. She’s um - invited you for tea.”

That’s unexpected. Gimrizh stands, dusting crumbs from her hands. She’s as prepared for this as she is for anything else the Citadel can throw at her. Besides, Ekkage, similarly to Baras, is probably content to wait until Vowrawn has finished his party before they actually kill her. What is a handful of hours to a vampire when centuries stretch before them? “Of course. Please escort me to Lady Ekkage then.”

“As you wish - right away.” Jillins awkwardly half bows, half salutes, and then shuts up in favor of leading her through the halls.

The Citadel is calm, sleepy, with cloudy, grey daylight streaming in from the high glass ceiling and lamps slowly flickering along the walls, a perpetual twilight over the entire manor. Distant murmurs echo, the sounds of those recovering from a long night of festivities and eagerly awaiting the evening. Only a few vampires pass them in the halls, and those that do are quiet, subdued. Some yawn.

It comes as no surprise to Gimrizh that Jillins leads her towards the western wing and this time she does better at tracking her footsteps in her head, matching the path up with the half finished map that rests under the cushions in her chambers.

Stately double doors mark Ekkage’s quarters and two soldiers guard the entrance. They bear a sigil of a white star behind a bloodrose - for the House of the West? Gimrizh can only assume that to be the case. The guards dismiss Jillins before stepping aside to let her in and announcing her.

Ekkage is lounging on a settee, sipping from a teacup and looking stately, prim even. “Have a seat,” she says curtly.

So that’s how this is going to go. Gimrizh does as asked, sitting across from Ekkage. A servant - a human servant - pours Gimrizh a cup of tea before scurrying from the room. Gimrizh lifts the warm cup to her lips and inhales the almost savory, nutty scent.

Ekkage is still glaring firmly at her from across the table so Gimrizh lowers her drink and raises an eyebrow. “I regret to inform you, Lady Ekkage, that I cannot read minds. If there is a reason you have brought me here, I beg you to spell it out for me. I am only a simple human, after all and I will not presume to know your motivations.”

“Aren’t you precious?” Ekkage asks lightly, “How adorable. No wonder you’ve gotten our dear Lord Vowrawn so fond of you.”

Is her anger a result of Vowrawn’s decision to let Gimrizh walk around without a guard? No, it’s more broad. Just the mere fact that Vowrawn favors her is enough. “Lord Vowrawn does as he pleases, I don’t think anyone, let alone a human, can change his mind without his will.”

“Flatter him all you wish, he isn’t here to listen to your pretty words. We both know that Lord Vowrawn is easily swayed by brief amusements.”

“Why, my lady, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you dislike the man.”

Ekkage laughs. “Dear, of course I don’t. Lord Vowrawn is my most esteemed colleague, I would never dislike him. I have an admiration for his accomplishments, in fact. So many centuries running the South - it’s impressive no matter his personality.” Her claws tap against the porcelain cup. “You could even say I aspire to be like him.”

The temptation to throw her previous words back at her - that Vowrawn cannot hear her flattery - is strong. Gimrizh settles for giving Ekkage a blank smile. “Yes, I suppose you haven’t been in charge for as long as your fellows.”

“Lord Marr is newer to this than I.” Ekkage rises from her seat in a swish of burgundy silks to lurk by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle.

“Do you enjoy your position? Surely commanding lands in which you have no family or other ties must be a challenge. Emotionally, I mean. Is it not lonely?”

Ekkage’s fingers twitch. “I do miss the North, but I cannot leave the West, not even as my heart yearns for the snowy mountains of my youth.” Her show of regret is so flippant that it’s as if she’s barely even trying. “Alas, I could not abandon the West to chaos. Their bloodlines are spent, their ruling families have all been regrettably hunted down by the Marshalls. I had no choice but to take up rule there.”

“If you had not, the West would have been completely cleansed of vampires by the church?”

“Why yes, my dear! Precisely! The thought of so many of my kin being brought low by humans is unbearable. If there is even some part I can play in restoring the West, I have no choice but to shoulder that burden.”

“May I ask how the Western Campaign began?”

Ekkage visibly deliberates her words before she starts. “A group of Marshalls, led by their leader - a woman named Elara - began to hunt down the ruling family of the West. The Willsaams were careless, foolish, and they let their ancestral homes be found by the humans easily. Had they more sense, they would have evaded the Marshalls’ search. Eventually, all of them, along with many of their larger vassal houses, were completely destroyed.”

Except for Jaesa. An interesting tidbit to neglect. “Did no one outside the West try to send help?”

“Of course! The East was too bogged down in their own struggles at the time, and the South struggled to get their troops through certain Marshall patrols, but the North lost many good soldiers fighting for our brethren in the West. My dear brother, Lord Baras, was the West’s sole ally in their fight, although he could only do so much to counter how careless the Willsaams were in revealing their locations to the Marshalls. They couldn’t see the humans’ spies underneath their own noses.”

Isn’t that a convenient narrative. Gimrizh knows how effective the Marshalls can be. There is a reason they’ve been the defenders of humanity for centuries, one of the few forces that stand against creatures of the night. Yet they are not all powerful. If they could crush the West so efficiently, there’s no reason they wouldn’t wage a similar campaign against every vampire in every corner of the lands.

Gimrizh just flatly replies, “How noble of the North then.”

“My brother is a noble man,” Ekkage says. “As is my dear foolish nephew.”

Ah. That’s why Gimrizh has been summoned here. Despite how thankful most of the party here seems to be, she doubts Ekkage is thrilled by her mutilation of Draagh. She has already been threatened by both Baras and Draagh, Ekkage’s attack is long delayed.

“I hold a great deal of affection for my dear nephew, you must understand.” Ekkage paces behind Gimrizh, slow quieted footsteps. “There is… an image he must maintain as Baras’s heir and your actions towards him have complicated that. You are a short lived problem but this will remain to haunt my darling Draagh.”

“I merely acted in self-defense.”

“And yet my nephew still lacks an eye.”

“What would you do about it, my lady? I am a dead woman, you need only wait till tomorrow night and your desire to be rid of me shall be sated.”

Ekkage pats Gimrizh’s hair. “So narrow minded of you.” She lets her claws graze Gimrizh’s scalp one last time before circling back around like a vulture. “I am in no rush for you to die and as you say, your death is assured.”

That’s what she thinks. “I see. You’re not out to kill me, of course not. You merely want me to spend my short time left alive in misery. Nausea, delirium, convulsions, fever - that sort of thing?”

Ekkage’s eyes narrow into slits. “Excuse me?”

Gimrizh holds out her untouched cup of tea and turns it over. The whole thing pours out onto the table, splattering over the wood and running down to stain the carpet. Ekkage’s jaw drops, her upper lip curling into a snarl. When the last drop of tea drips down unto a ruined doily, Gimrizh tosses the empty cup over her shoulder and lets it shatter against the floor.

“Wing mushrooms have a very distinctive smell,” Gimrizh informs Ekkage. “Even using just the toxin can’t get rid of it entirely. Try better next time.”

“How _dare_ you!” Ekkage draws herself up into the height of her power and majesty. Fire burns in her golden eyes as her aura pulses rage around the room. “You should suffer for what you did - you filthy _human scum_ \- “

Gimrizh leaps to her feet. If Ekkage has the guts to kill her and risk Vowrawn’s wrath, she would have put something lethal in the tea. The lady is just pathetic, wanting to lash out like a dog that will do no more than bark. Gimrizh will not cower to her. “Now now, Lady Ekkage. Is that any way to speak to your queen?”

“I will not play Vowrawn’s game. He might dress you up in pretty clothes and jewels, but you are _nothing_.”

“I’m as legitimate a ruler as you are.”

The sheer presence of Ekkage’s fury almost sends Gimrizh stumbling backwards on unsteady feet. “Get out!” Ekkage rages, spitting the words at her. She jabs a clawed finger at the door, “Leave! Now! I want you gone from my sight! Or else I shall decide to suffer Vowrawn’s pathetic dislike and rip your throat open!”

Gimrizh gives a shallow curtsey and leaves. “Why certainly.”

As soon as the door closes behind her back, she hears something shatter violently against the wood. That must have been the teapot.

The two guards simply look away as Gimrizh pauses outside the door to let her anger cool down and flare out. To be frank, she could have handled that better. Oh well, it probably doesn’t matter. She never had a friend in Ekkage, and she can’t see the lady telling anyone else about what happened here. This is Vowrawn’s house. Playing by Vowrawn’s rules here matters more to Ekkage than anything Gimrizh might say.

Another crash comes through from Ekkage’s chambers.

A woman’s voice laughs. “I was going to ask if now is a good time to speak with my lady, but I believe that just answered my question.”

Gimrizh’s gaze snaps up to see a familiar face. A stern looking woman with her brown hair tied back in a tight bun and wearing a practical suit. The last person from the group Malavai had spoken with during last night’s festivities. What a fortunate coincidence, that Gimrizh should run into her here.

“Yes,” Gimrizh replies, “I think you may wish to return later.”

The woman nods, and then offers Gimrizh a polite bow. “I am Gesselle Organa, general and seneschal of the West. No need to introduce yourself, I know who you are.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

Organa gestures for Gimrizh to follow her down the halls. “Walk with me for a while. I have a few questions I would ask you.”

Isn’t that the role reversal.

Gimrizh dogs Organa’s footsteps as the woman slowly heads away from the western wing and towards the central spires. A steep set of stairs and a few turns and then they’re in a secluded room in one of the Citadel’s tall towers. Thin windows, too small for Gimrizh to squeeze through, shine lines of daylight into the manor’s gloom.

“Tell me,” Organa asks at long last, leaning against a window and staring out at the craggy mountainside. “How fares Jaesa? I have been informed that Lord Baras decided to place her as your lady in waiting.”

“Fine. I hardly know. It isn’t as if I am friends with the woman.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be.”

“Besides, I doubt she’d be happy in her position. I don’t want to sound rude, but it’s clear that Lord Baras’s decision to place her as my lady in waiting is a slight against her. I don’t think I’m seeing Jaesa at her best.”

Organa sniffs derisively. “Lord Baras. He’s a fool.”

“I’ve yet to meet many at this party who seem to actually like him,” Gimrizh acknowledges. “He’s certainly unpopular.”

“He has few friends here and more enemies.” And given what Mara said about that little group of theirs that Organa seems to be part of, Gimrizh would guess that Organa falls under the latter category. The woman sighs, letting her head rest against the wall. “Jaesa used to be my lady in waiting, did you know? When her sire still ruled the West. It was a good position for her - high up, respectable. It taught her the ways of the court and I cared about her too much to mistreat her.”

The story Ekkage spun about the West had been far too neat. Gimrizh is keen to get a different, and perhaps more accurate, perspective on the topic of the Western Campaign. “How did Jaesa come to leave your service? I imagine she would have been happier there than here, being forced to serve a joke.”

“Lord Baras took her as his ward when the House of the West fell.”

“Didn’t the West protest such an action?”

Organa’s laugh is a bitter thing. “You assume we had the voice with which to complain. Our strength was spent. We were broken. Lord Baras did as he willed.”

“I can relate.”

“Yes - I suppose you can. Whatever else can be said about Lord Baras, his timing is always flawless. He swept in to save the West from the Marshalls just in time. Early enough to save us, late enough to take Jaesa back North and leave his sister in to rule.”

It failed him when he decided to take Gimrizh - she will see to that. She’ll ensure he regrets humiliating her and threatening her. He’ll wish he’d let her go the moment he laid eyes on her in the Vildenwald. When she turns herself, then she shall have the last laugh. “That is some impressively good timing.”

Organa nods once, a harsh jerk of her head. “Yes. It is.”

“So Jaesa has been in the North for the past fifty years.” That certainly makes sense, given what else she’s heard. “And this - this party - is the first time any of you have seen her since then?”

“Lord Baras has been requested time and time again to provide proof that she still lives. This is the first year he’s acquiesced to our petitions.”

“Petitions led by you?”

“No. Unfortunately not. I hold true to Lady Ekkage’s rule - I cannot be held suspect in case one day my power is needed for - “ Organa clears her throat, “I’m sorry majesty. I don’t mean to trouble you with my burdens. My home and my heart seek out those who also know Jaesa, a scant few in number in the Citadel. Does she look well?”

“Well enough, I suppose.”

Organa fiddles with the elaborate stonework on the windowsill, tracing over carved patterns. “I - well this might sound a strange question, but have you heard her singing? She used to frequently when she was younger.”

“No. She hasn’t.”

“Ah.”

“Can Jaesa - “ Ugh, there is no point beating around the bush with this. Organa is a dissident, self-admitted, she will not spread word of Gimrizh’s questioning. “Can Jaesa ever retake the West?”

Organa shrugs. “Not while Lady Ekkage still draws breath. If she felt as though Lady Ekkage had wronged her, she could duel her for the West, but Jaesa hasn’t the temperment to issue such a challenge.”

“Do Lady Ekkage and Lord Baras ever quarrell?”

“No. They have always had each other’s backs, turning to each other in the face of adversity. Besides, if they fought it would be most dishonorable. Attacking a sibling is a serious grievance, and with the power the both of them hold - “ Organa shakes her head. “No, I doubt it. I fear that is no path down which Jaesa could return to the West. Oh my poor lost lady. Her way ahead is dark indeed.”

It _would_ be dishonorable. Of _course_!

Gimrizh feels a spark ignite in the depths of her heart. She places a hand on Organa’s arm, ignoring the woman’s vampiric nature for the moment, “Forgive me, General, but I must depart. Thank you for the most illuminating conversation.”

“Certainly - but - “

The rest of Organa’s reply is lost as Gimrizh gathers her skirts in her hand and bolts down the stairs two at a time.

Her mind’s eye guides her back the way she came, retracing her steps till she’s in the familiar western wing. From there she makes her down, down, to the south and to the lower halls.

None try to stop her in her hurried march towards Vowrawn’s library.

Fortunately, unlike the last time she’s attempted to enter here, Lady Mara is not in the premises, and the library is silent and empty as a crypt. That’s certainly fitting.

Papers fly as Gimrizh searches the desks and tables for that one sheet of parchment she’d consulted yesterday. It has been moved to a different corner of the desk, piled under a stack of shipment records from Vaiken Ports. Gimrizh drags her finger down the list until she stops under Mancer Vette’s name.

She commits the number to memory and then rushes over to the text containing a map of the Citadel to find the corresponding room.

Southern wing. Far back. Perfect, although it means Gimrizh is to do an awful lot of running about the manor.

Taking care to put everything back where she found it, she rushes from the library as quickly as she entered. Her feet fly over the Citadel’s stone floors.

That rather useless guard, Jillins, is back at her door when Gimrizh finally returns to her quarters.

“Highness - I - uh - “

She holds up a finger to shush him. “I need paper, a pen to write with, and a needle with blue thread.”

He blinks at her.

“And I need them now,” she adds.

Eyes wide, he scurries off to do her bidding.

Once she’s safely in her quarters, Gimrizh retrieves the handkerchief and the map from under her chair’s cushions. She can remember the route she took from here to Ekkage’s chambers, and she places her finger on the empty section of her map where those rooms must be located, marking it in her mind. Knowing the layout of the Citadel will be crucial for this framework plan she’s concocting.

She grabs one of the candles from her nightstand and uses the fire that still burns in her hearth to light the wick. She’s going to need wax.

After a few minutes, Jillins returns. He’s panting for breath as he knocks on her door, nearly dropping the items as he hands them over to her. But everything she’d requested is here - she can begin.

First thing - shut the door in Jillins’s face.

It has been a very long time since Gimrizh tried to embroider and she tries maybe twenty times to get the damn thread through the eye. Fortunately this work need not look professionally done. In fact, if she guesses correctly, a neat job would not sell the her planned story as well as a poor one.

The handkerchief is spread over her lap and she inelegantly stitches a single short word into a corner of it.

_Stables._

She leaves behind an ugly knot when she ties off the thread. Hm. It needs to look older. She crumples it up a number of times and then grinds it beneath her heel for a moment. She even spills a few drops of cold tea on it. Then she crushes it into a tiny ball and sits on it while she works on creating the next piece for her charade.

A letter.

The pen is sleek and fits nicely in her hand when she places the tip into the stone inkwell. She spreads out a sheet of paper and considers where to begin. Surely she should not address it, that would be too formal for what she needs to write. Yes, it shall be best to simply start with the contents of the letter.

_I have missed you more than I can say, my dearest, my darling. Long years shall never again sunder us…_

Ugh, such sappy bullshit. Whatever, it fits.

Gimrizh continues in that vein for a while before getting to the heart of what this letter needs to say. The romance it begins with shall sell the story, but it’s the latter half that’s necessary. And for her plan to work both halves must be just as convincing.

When finished, Gimrizh does not sign a name at the bottom and then blows on the ink to dry it faster.

To close the letter, she folds it up and drips the candle wax onto the seam. After a moment has passed and the wax cooled somewhat, she presses her thumb into it instead of any stamp or seal. As is the manner of lovers everywhere. She might not be a romantic at heart, but she knows the ways of romance from stories. The heat of the wax doesn’t even hurt as much as she’d been expecting.

Now for the map. A simple ‘x’ is drawn over a corridor in the western wing and then she folds the map back up as well.

She shoves the letter and the handkerchief up one sleeve, the map up the other, dumps the blank paper onto a desk in the corner, and hides the needle and thread.

Does she need anything else? She gives her chambers a once over to make sure than everything that needs to be hidden is and that she has not forgotten anything crucial. If only she had a weapon on her, but that’s probably asking for too much right now.

She fixes her hair and smooths out her dress.

“Jillins.” She opens the door to see the soldier still milling about. “You’re dismissed. Find me Jaesa Willsaam and tell her that I want to speak with her once she has a moment. Tell her to meet me in the main hall.”

“Yes, highness.” And then he’s off again.

Gimrizh makes her way towards Vette’s chambers in the southern wing.

The Citadel is beginning to wake up. Human servants scurry from one end of the manor to the other, bearing sheets and trays and crates of all sorts, silently keeping their heads down as they go. Something in Gimrizh’s heart twists as she sees her fellow humans as such, but they at least shall live beyond the week. Their vampire masters keep them alive, and in that they might be luckier than her.

Some might argue that a life of servitude is worse than a swift death, and she can’t argue that they might think so. But not for her. For her, death is worse than anything.

Others roam the halls now as well, vampires in giggling flocks that Gimrizh does her very best to avoid.

She is in no mood to play nice with them. Not when she has work to do.

A few of them wave at her from a distance and she waves back with a false smile, making sure to move on before they can actually catch up with her and try to chat. She’ll show them - she’ll show them all.

Vette’s rooms are spacious indeed, if the large double doors marking the entrance are anything to go by. The respect a Mancer gains is not to be underestimated. And, as she expected, Pierce is standing by the doors, his hands clasped behind his back as he waits with sharp eyes for any potential intruders.

“Oh, it’s you again.” He gives her a steely look. “If you’re looking to speak with the Mancer, she’s conducting business at the moment.”

“Is ‘business’ Jaesa?”

Pierce chokes for a moment. “No. ‘Business’ is ‘dead asleep’ if you must know. If you think they’re stupid enough to fuck in Vette’s own chambers - “

“Look, it was just a joke.”

“Not a very funny one.”

Gimrizh sighs and lets her shoulders sag, keeping her eyes locked on her feet. “I’m sorry. That’s what I came to say. I’m sorry for yelling at you and the Mancer - I’m sorry for attacking you - I’m sorry for throwing her offer away like that - I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. It was wrong, and I’m _so sorry_.”

“Hey now. It’s - er - it’s okay.” He reaches out awkwardly and pats her on the shoulder, “It’s alright, miss, I’m not angry at you.”

She draws in a deep, shaky breath. “You have every right to be.”

His hand draws her a bit closer, gentler, softened by pity. “I think I’ll save my anger for the fangs here, huh? How are - how are you holding up?”

“I’m so…” She stumbles towards him, throwing herself into his arms and hugging him for all it’s worth. “It’s _lonely._ No other humans, no one who - just vampires and they all want to eat me or laugh or - “

Pierce rubs comforting circles into her back. “Yeah. They’re not always the best of folk.”

The rough fabric of his shirt scratches at her fingers as her hands splay out behind his neck, feeling for what she knows must be -

There.

Gimrizh clutches the chain he wears with all her strength and leaps backwards, the clasp snapping in two. The chain dangles from her hand, a heavy pendant that she holds onto for dear life. Her feet stumble backwards, quick to put distance between the two of them before he gets any ideas about rushing her.

“You - !” Pierce’s face shifts from shock to outrage to anger. He takes a thundering step forward, his hands curled into fists. “Give that _back_.”

“Not one step closer or I’ll scream.”

He freezes. His nostrils flare with fury as he struggles not to rush her right then and there. “If you think that’ll deter me, then you’re dead wrong.”

Gimrizh arches an eyebrow. “Oh?” She swings the necklace around her hand as though it’s a pendulum. It’s a thick iron chain, with a faint shimmer to it, as though water flows behind the surface of the metal. And the charm dangling from it is a wide disc carved with many spells and inlaid with mossy green stones. Exactly what she’d guessed. “You’ve forgotten where you stand, Pierce.”

“In front of a right bastard, that’s where.” He snarls, lifting his foot to take another step.

“I said - not one step closer.” She unconsciously jerks the necklace a tiny bit further away from him. “I’ll scream. And then every vampire nearby will run over here to see what’s going on - do you really want that?”

His eyes go wide, even as he tries to make it look as though her words mean nothing. “So what? I’ll just tell them you’re a thief. Better to give me that back now - “

She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Don’t take me for a fool. I’m guessing this little trinket hides your scent from them? Without it, they’ll notice if they get too close, won’t they? You might be the Mancer’s associate, but that won’t protect you from a bunch of vampires who will be oh-so furious when they find a werewolf in their midst.”

“How?” he demands, his voice a low growl, “Who told you?”

“Told me? Why, no one. It was obvious.”

“What?”

Gimrizh swings the pendant back and forth, watching as his gaze follows it. “Earlier - you knew when the Mancer was finished speaking with Jaesa, and you knew she was returning alone. You caught the Mancer’s scent.”

“Could be I’m just good at my job,” he retorts.

Gimrizh raises an eyebrow. “Please, we both know better than that. Why else would you conceal such fine jewelry beneath your shirt, despite being at a fancy party? And why,” she continues, triumphant, “would you bother to wrap the metal on that blessed dagger I gave you back in Upper Welshire? Blessed steel won’t burn human hands.”

Pierce sighs in defeat. “And werewolf? How’d you know that’s what I am?”

“You knew the moon cycles faster than anyone I’ve ever met - especially for one who doesn’t do a lot of travelling.” She stops swinging the chain. “Back to the matter at hand.”

He crosses his arms in an attempt to intimidate her. A failed attempt, but a solid effort. “Fine. What do you want for it?”

“You’re going to do something for me. No need to look so dour, I’m sure once you think about it, you’ll be thrilled to do as I ask.”

“I doubt it.”

She ignores that interruption to continue, “Once you’ve done as I ask, I’ll give this back to you. I know you could wait until my death tomorrow night, but you must be aware that you’re on a deadline to get it back. The longer you go without it - the more you risk a vampire coming across you by happenstance and realizing that you don’t smell quite like a human.”

Pierce is still looking at her like he’s debating that option. “I could just get the Mancer to make me another.”

That’s a bluff if she’s ever heard one. “And how long would that take?”

His glare could melt a glacier. “ _Fine_ ,” he admits after a long moment. “What the fuck do you want me to do?”

Gimrizh withdraws her map. “Tonight, when the party begins, I want you to keep an eye on Baras. Stay out of sight, obviously, I don’t want you to be discovered, but watch him. At some point during the festivities, he’ll storm off towards the southern wing with quite some haste. When he does so, you will go to his chambers in the northern wing.”

“What, you want me to _rob_ him?”

“Not quite.” Although she imagines it would be nice to nick a few of his treasures, just to spite him. “There will be a sword, likely near his bed, and I want you to take it. The handle will be made of rowan - I don’t think you’ll have trouble spotting it. Handle it carefully. Take the sword and go wait in a corridor not too far from his rooms. It’s a servant’s corridor, no one who isn’t human will spot you. Not too long after, I should think, Lady Ekkage shall pass you by.”

Pierce blinks incredulously. “Shit. You’re fucking insane. You want me to kill Ekkage.”

Not insane, just very dedicated towards her own survival. “Precisely. Make it obvious that her death was caused by that very sword, and don’t bother cleaning it before you return it to Baras’s chambers. Leave Ekkage where she falls.”

“So.” He takes a deep breath and tightly shuts his eyes. “Fuck. That’s what you meant when you said I’d want to follow your orders.”

“You care for Jaesa. Subsequently, I can’t imagine you’d be overly fond of Ekkage.”

“Can’t say that I am.”

“Then I doubt it will be a great moral hardship for you to take her life.”

The glower simmering over him doesn’t fade much even as he agrees. “No, not really. FIne - fucking fine. You’re going to get me killed anyway, aren’t you?”

That’s hardly her goal. “Do exactly as I say, and you’ll be fine. Once the job is completed, I’ll seek you out to return the necklace. Then you can do whatever you want, I suppose, although you might want to sit back and watch how things play out. Just a suggestion.”

“What do you get out of this?” Pierce asks, “I can’t see how this helps you.”

A smirk is curling across her lips as she considers the pieces of her plan. “That’s for me to know.”

He glares at her before gesturing to the map in her hand. “What’s that then?”

“A map of the northern wing of the manor. I’ve marked Baras’s chambers on it, as well as the servant corridor where you should wait for Ekkage.”

He reaches out to take it and she quickly tugs it backwards.

“Not yet.” She doesn’t need a weapon. That’s what she tells herself anyway. But oh, the temptation is too great. More than the simple desire to be armed, she wants something of hers back in her hands. “Give me back my knife. I know you have it on you - you’d be a fool not to bring it here.”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“No.”

With a sigh, Pierce dips his hand into his breast pocket and pulls out the knife, still wrapped in a handkerchief. The first glimpse of polished steel draws a gasp from Gimrizh’s lips. Hers. All hers.

“Place it on the ground,” she orders, and waits for him to do so before continuing. “Now back away. I’m going to take the knife and replace it with the map.”

He holds up his open, empty hands and takes five long strides away from the weapon. Carefully, she inches towards the blade, swapping it out for the map with a sigh of relief. Her fingers curl around the thick metal ring of her dagger, relishing the feel of holding something of hers again.

At least stiff bodices are good for something, she thinks, as she cuts a slit along where her skirt meets her ribs and slides the knife into the hidden pocket. “You may pick up the map now,” she tells Pierce as she backs away.

“Is that all?” he asks between gritted teeth.

She nods, “That’s all.”

She waits until he’s retrieved the map before she turns to leave, keeping a careful ear open in case he tries to rush her while her back is turned. But no, he’s quiet, and unlike vampires, werewolves have no way to silence themselves. He’s going to do exactly as she says - perfect. This is going to work.

“Oh,” she adds over her shoulder, before she turns a corner. “And don’t inform the Mancer.”

He grumbles something under his breath, only she can’t hear it properly as she puts distance between the two of them.

Even though Mancer Vette had seemed - not helpful exactly, but perhaps something close to that - Gimrizh doesn’t want her to be even slightly aware of the events that are about to occur. The Mancer is dangerous, powerful, undeniably a threat should she chose to become one. It isn’t something Gimrizh is willing to risk.

Satisfaction, vicious and bitter, curls in her stomach like a cat. There’s a lightness to her steps that there hadn’t been before as she makes her way towards the ballroom to meet Jaesa. Not that she feels as though her task is done, not at all. Determination - cold, hardened energy fuels her. Hope is not an emotion she allows herself to feel, but resolve is. Her way forward is clear, a path laid beneath her feet.

The ballroom is beginning to fill with servants putting up decor and setting up tables for food and drink. In one alcove, out of the way and fiddling with her sleeves, stands Jaesa. Gimrizh quickly bends down to stuff the necklace into the sole of her shoe and then heads towards her lady in waiting.

“Majesty,” she greets as Gimrizh approaches. “How can I help?”

A girl made for romance, indeed. This won’t be as difficult as speaking with Pierce. “Actually, I believe I can help you.”

“Um? Pardon me?”

“I know you and your lady love are trying to be discreet,” Gimrizh says quietly. At that, she can see Jaesa tense up, and she’s certain the woman has just made their conversation dead silent to any potential eavesdroppers. “I thought I might offer you and the Mancer my quarters for the night. I won’t be - well, I know I won’t be able to sleep. Take them. Spend some time with your wife in privacy. No one will think to look for you or her in my rooms.”

Redness flushes Jaesa’s cheeks. “Thank you.” It’s practically a squeak.

“Just - er - let me know when you decide to take me up on that offer. So that I know when my rooms aren’t usable anymore.”

“Of course. Thank you. Really. I feel as though I can barely even look at her without Lord Baras or Lady Ekkage hovering over my shoulder. I’m really, truly grateful.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jaesa bites her lower lip before asking, “Why - well, you have no reason to like me. Or Vette. Why would you be kind to us?”

Because she needs them out of the way and this is the path of least resistance. “Because the Mancer tried to be kind to me. As cold as it sounds, I pity the situation you two have found yourselves in. I’m not long for this world, but if I can help you find a little bit of happiness before I go, then all the better.”

In a movement too quick for Gimrizh to avoid it, Jaesa topples forward and hugs her.

That’s. Unexpected. Okay.

The second hug Gimrizh has had in the past hour, and this one - as far as she knows - isn’t even being used for any gain. Jaesa’s honest gratitude is almost refreshing, if deeply surprising.

Gimrizh has to wriggle out of Jaesa’s arms. “Jaesa - don’t -”

“Oh!” She leaps backwards, deeply embarrassed. “I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to offend you, not after you’ve been so compassionate.”

If Jaesa knew the whole of Gimrizh’s thoughts, she would not have used that particular word. Not in the slightest. Gimrizh is nothing more and nothing less than utterly self-serving. “It’s fine,” she replies, “Just, maybe don’t do that again?”

“Of course. Certainly.” She winces, “Sorry, again.”

In that moment, Gimrizh hates Jaesa not just for being a vampire, but for being both that and, as Pierce said, sweet. How dare she be both. Gimrizh doesn’t feel bad for using the woman, or for using anyone here. And yet it seems as though Jaesa is trying her damndest to make Gimrizh care.

As Jaesa nearly dances away towards the southern wing, Gimrizh heads to a table being filled with finger food and shoves a handful of tiny sandwiches into her mouth. Her manners make a brief reappearance in waiting to properly swallow before pouring herself a glass of water from a pitcher. Her hangover induced headache, already fading from the tea, almost completely disappears after she chugs the entire glass.

She takes one of the spiraling staircases up to a balcony that wides around the upper halls. It’s probably a poor idea to remain in the central ballroom when the party begins, not unless she wants to be swept up by eager gossiping vampires right away.

Ugh but walking is a pain with the cold disk of metal under her toes.

“Ah, your highness!” With a rustle of silks and the clank of his dangling gold jewelry, Vowrawn appears at her side. “I’ve been curious as to what you’ve been up to.”

Even such an innocuous statement like that makes her heart skip a beat. “I had tea with the Lady Ekkage, my lord.”

“Lovely woman, isn’t she?”

“Charming.”

Vowrawn snickers. “Ah, I thought she might try and threaten you. Fear not, I won’t let her harm our illustrious queen.” He strokes a hand through her hair, as though she is a pet to be comforted.

Removing his hand from her would attract attention and so she stands stiff as a board while he pets her. “Not until tomorrow evening, at least. I am not afraid of Lady Ekkage, no matter how many times she threatens me. She is a dog barking at the door that will snap and snarl for hours before it will finally bite. And I will not live long enough for her to reach the point of striking.”

“True enough.” He withdraws his hand at last, smirking at her description of Lady Ekkage. “I suppose her hand might be forced, but I’ll be very cross with her if it is.”

“I have no intention of forcing it, my lord.”

“Of course not.” Vowrawn takes her arm and leads her across the balcony. “Let me introduce you to some of my Southern friends - it wouldn’t do for your exposure to our magnificent society to be tinged so heavily by Lady Ekkage’s sharp words.”

Great. Mingling. “As you say, my lord.”

Those he wants to introduce her to are chattering like songbirds, sparkling in the evening light that pours in from the ceiling. Half of them are just as adorned in gold jewelry as Vowrawn himself.

“Majesty!” One of them grins to see Gimrizh approach, “Oh look, my lord, isn’t she adorable?”

Gimrizh paints a smile over her lips. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.

The lord, a man with a large gold ring hanging from his nose, bows to her, just deep enough to be sarcastic. “I’m Haresh. My Lord Vowrawn, my most esteemed sire, has been quite enthused by you so far. Such a refreshing turn, the last couple of years saw very dull guests of honor, I must say.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replies, trying to sound warm.

“Oh where are my manners!” Vowrawn declares, “Introductions are in order. Dearest Haresh, you’ve just met. And then Lord Vardri Nox - “

A thin, scrappy looking man, barely interested in Gimrizh at all, just nods. His haughty expression shines through heavy dark circles under his eyes, and the rich purple coat slung over his shoulders only make his complexion all the more pallid. Gimrizh thinks she’s heard his name before, something about a bloodline claim?

Vowrawn continues, “- and this stunning woman is Lady - “

“No need, my lord, we’ve met.” Mara winks at Gimrizh. “Highness. It’s so lovely to see you again.”

Ah yes, the woman who will literally eat her alive, according to Malavai. Gimrizh can’t say she’d been hoping to run into her again. “Lady Thrask. A pleasure as always.”

“Oh!” Vowrawn laughs, “Was my dear Maranel your dance partner from last night, highness?”

“Her majesty is an excellent dancer,” Mara says gracefully. It’s completely false, but it’s polite of her to say it anyway. Gimrizh will look forward to learning how to dance properly once she’s secured her life and is free of this damn place. It’s not exactly high on her priority list at the moment.

“That’s… kinder than my dancing skills deserve, Lady Thrask.”

“Nonsense. You did very well.”

Lord Nox rolls his eyes, “Yes, yes, humans are cute and tasty, can we please get back to business?”

The other three laugh at that, Vowrawn’s just the slightest bit sharper than usual. “My hasty friend,” he says, light and cheerful. “don’t insult my guests in my house. Goodness me, who raised you?”

Nox’s eyes narrow into slits, yet still he laughs, as though it really is nothing more than fun and games to him. She’ll never understand vampires. “Lord Kallig raised me, actually, although that doesn’t seem to mean much to some of your fellows. Which brings me back to the bloodline claim I was trying to discuss before you, my dear Lord Vowrawn, decided to play with your food.”

“And you don’t?” Vowrawn replies, “Dear me, you are missing out terribly if you don’t have a bit of fun first.”

When she turns herself she won’t become like them. She won’t.

Her salvation arrives in the unlikely form of Vette, sauntering into the circle of vampires and giving the lot of them a cheerful grin. “Good evening, my lords and ladies.” Vette gives a slight nod of her head that’s almost a bow. “Would you mind terribly if I stole her highness for a moment?”

“Go right ahead, my dear,” Vowrawn agrees, waving the two of them off as he turns his focus back to the ball of anger that is Lord Nox.

More grateful to Vette than she’s ever been before, Gimrizh gladly slips off to find a quiet corner with Vette.

“Jaesa told me what you said,” Vette begins as soon as they have put a good distance between them and any vampires in the upper floors. “I - thank you. It’s been nearly impossible to find any time to spend with her. She’s too - too watched over here. But you’re right, no one will think to look for either of us in your rooms.”

Gimrizh shrugs. “It simply seemed a good idea.”

“It’s, well, it’s a kindness I hadn’t been expecting to find here, much less from…”

“From me?”

“No offense meant.”

“After the way I treated you earlier, I understand. And I am sorry for attempting to strike you then, I… I was not at my best.”

Vette beams at her, before clapping her on the shoulder like a friend. “Hey, no harm no foul, right? Me and Jaesa are going to quietly give our watchers the slip, I think she’s sneaking off from under Baras’s eyes right now. For what it’s worth, I hope you enjoy the evening.” She pauses, opening and closing her mouth a couple times before she finally asks the question that Gimrizh knows it coming. “My offer is - er - if you’ve changed your mind - “

“I haven’t,” she replies with a shake of her head. “I know you mean well, but I can’t - it goes against my nature to give in like that.”

With a final, fading smile, Vette says, “Then I wish you luck.”

And then she turns to leave, heading towards her own slice of happiness that Gimrizh is using to commit at least one murder.

Now that Vette has vacated the southern wing and Pierce has been sent into hiding, she takes a deep breath and makes her way across the ballroom as unobtrusively as possible.

Vette’s rooms are empty and Gimrizh’s window of opportunity here is limited.

She takes a servant’s corridor for part of the way back to the southern wing and then risks the main halls only when she hears no one coming - in a manor full of vampires, it’s less of a guarantee than it might otherwise be, but nonetheless it is all she has to go by.

As suspected, when she comes across Vette’s rooms Pierce is nowhere to be seen.

She had been relatively certain that he wouldn’t risk a vampire coming to talk business with Vette, although she hadn’t been certain.

The doors are locked, but it’s the work of a moment to take out one of the pins in her dress and pick the lock. Once it’s open, she puts the pin back and eases her way into Vette’s chambers. It is every bit as opulent as she’d expect for such an important guest of Lord Vowrawn and she has to take a minute to drag her eyes over the splendor.

 _If I were Vette_ , she thinks to herself, _where would I hide this_?

Under the mattress? Too cliche. Dresser? Too easily discovered by cleaning staff. Gimrizh steps lightly through the room, careful not to disturb anything as she examines the chambers for the most sensible location. It can’t be the first place to look, it has to actually be hidden. The time this will buy is crucial.

Her gaze lands on a medicine box that’s been placed under Vette’s nightstand.

Perfect. She kneels down next to it and cracks it open. What must be two dozen tiny vials greet her, winking in the light, their contents as far from medicine as possible. A yellowed tooth lies in the bottom of one, another contains a green liquid that’s bubbling like a stew pot even inside the sealed glass. Gimrizh is pretty sure that one vial, containing grey ashes that lightly stirs around itself, is phoenix ash.

Whatever the rest of these items are, she’s careful not to touch them as she retrieves the handkerchief from her sleeve and places it inside the box.

At least the strange contents will help remove any smell of human from the fabric.

When it’s done and the lid is closed once more, she leaves the box sticking out slightly. It wouldn’t do for her treasure to be overlooked entirely.

She doesn’t lock the door behind her.

Music floats down from the ballroom as she makes her way back towards the center of the Citadel.

Violins are the most prominent instrument, playing a lively tune with some sort of woodwind in the back, something Gimrizh’s untrained ear can’t pick out. It’s just slightly different from music she’d expect at a human party, a little richer, and a little deeper. A bit more compelling, as though the players are weaving compulsion into the sound itself.

The tune tugs at her skirts, guiding her back to the ballroom.

By now, the party truly has begun in earnest, with dancers spiraling around on the marble floors and more partygoers pouring in from all corners of the manor. The wine has begun flowing freely and the conversation even more so, groups of vampires already flocking into groups to gossip.

Tonight, Gimrizh has no interest in that.

She’s here on a mission now. Smiling and waving in response to those that catch her eye, she slowly makes her way around the edge of the ballroom, searching out one person in particular that she can guess might be difficult to find.

Malavai is on one of the upper balconies, her eyes are drawn to him almost right away. Organa is following Ekkage around, Mara is supervising the banquet tables, and Ser Ovech - is nowhere to be seen. Damn. Is he delayed in getting to the party? He wouldn’t simply not attend tonight, surely he must just be a latecomer.

She always knew she couldn’t rely on their little group gathering every evening, but she’d been sure that Ovech and his guard would turn up.

“Aren’t you the wallflower this evening?” A familiar, snide voice remarks.

Oh she does _not_ have the time to deal with this. “ _Draagh_ ,” Gimrizh says, turning to face him with a false smile on her lips.

He smirks viciously at her, a sharp line of teeth. “Did no one ask her highness for a dance?”

“You assume I want to dance.” She tries to keep moving, to keep scanning the room. “How lovely to see that you’ve emerged from your lair at last. Did your pride finally recover enough to show your face? Or, what’s left of your face, I should say.”

The bandages around his head have been replaced with clean ones, but they’re still there and still prominent. “Thank you for your concern. I won’t return the favor and care about your appearance - if I did I’d be too worried to breathe.”

What a pathetic retort. “Again with the assumptions. I don’t care what anyone thinks about my appearance. You really must try better.”

“I don’t need to, you’ll be slaughtered soon enough.”

“That was even more pathetic.”

“You should be more worried about your impending demise. Your little breakdown yesterday was quite hilarious.”

She grits her teeth together and very slowly counts to ten.

“Oh wait,” he continues, “I am so sorry, I forgot that you tried to use that to escape. Climbing out the window? Really? So rudimentary. I suppose that’s humans for you; stupid and predictable without an original thought in your head. It’s no wonder that your pathetic little attempt failed before it had barely even begun.”

Before this is over, she’s going to take his other fucking eye. Gimrizh yanks up a handful of her skirts and stomps in the opposite direction, making a beeline for a drinks table that’s closer to the hub of the party. Hopefully she’ll be able to find who she’s looking for there.

Only Draagh isn’t leaving.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she demands, spinning sharply on her heels to look him in the eye.

He hums thoughtfully, his claws reaching out and delicately caressing a strand of her hair. “I do have quite a few ideas. I’ve been meaning to repay the favor and take your eye. Fair is fair, after all.”

“You won’t, coward.”

“I would. It’d be easy. Humans are so weak after all, it wouldn’t take me long. Unless I wanted to draw it out for you. I could just trace your eyelid, a gentle press of my fingers,” He trails a finger up her cheek, his touch freezing on her skin and yet she finds that she can’t move, something about his voice keeping her pinned in place even as her heart pounds against her ribs like a drum. “Until I _pop_ your eye from your skull.”

One sharp claw scratches against her skin, just under her eye and that’s enough to snap Gimrizh back into focus.

Oh she’s afraid of him alright, but in that moment it’s hot anger that burns within her. She jerks her head backwards, her hand coming up to slap him, her palm stinging as it makes contact with his cold wrist.

“Fuck. Off,” she snarls, taking a small, measured step backwards.

He obligingly withdraws from her, still hovering around, far too close for comfort. “Am I distressing her highness?”

“Don’t forget why you are currently seeing only half the world, Draagh.”

“If you want to test yourself against me, on even ground, I’d be more than happy to oblige you.”

Fuck. He’s looking for a fight. Of course. Straight up killing her would be far too offensive for Vowrawn to let it stand, but if she was the one to throw the first punch it would be a different story. He probably wouldn’t have to kill her himself if it came to it. Ekkage would undoubtedly be thrilled to do it herself.

Fucking bastard. She can’t give him what he’s looking for. That said she needs to shake him, and do it fast.

Pretending to think up a good response to him, she leans back against the drinks table and surveys the room until a flicker of movement catches her eye.

Ovech. Ovech, and his surly guard, Ille, have arrived.

Excellent.

“I already fought you fairly,” she tells Draagh with thin smile, “It’s not my fault that you refused to take me seriously and lost an eye.”

He laughs, “That wasn’t fair and you know it.”

Ignoring his reply, she turns and walks off. As expected, he follows at her shoulder. “I can’t help it that you’re a pathetic combatant,” she retorts as he dogs her steps. “And it doesn’t help your image that once you’re beaten, you spend your time stalking the victor.”

“Victor? Please, if you’d won, you wouldn’t be trapped in the Citadel.”

It’s hard to remember the last time she hated someone quite so much.

A figure stands out from the crowd, a woman that’s gathered quite a gossiping group around her, almost as though she’s a queen holding her own court. Perfect. A smirk spread across Gimrizh’s lips as she thinks of her stalker. Oh she’d love to see him deal with this.

“Lady Sartoris!” Gimrizh greets cheerfully, sliding into the group.

Sartoris grins when she sees her. The woman is stunning, an inch shorter than Gimrizh but wearing the tallest, sharpest heels in existence. Her flaming red hair is piled up on her head, tumbling elegantly around her bare shoulders. “Majesty. Why I don’t believe we’ve met, how tragic.”

“I simply had to make your acquaintance,” Gimrizh says, sweeping into a curtsey. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Gimrizh Korribanil, and this,” she gestures to Draagh behind her, who has gone suddenly pale, “is - “

“Oh,” Sartoris’s grin turns sharp, toothy, and surprisingly sharklike. “I know Draagh quite well. We’re well acquainted, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are,” Draagh replies stiffly.

A gentleman in the crowd snickers behind his loftily raised hand.

“I must say,” Sartoris continues. “I didn’t think you would be particularly fond of this human after what she did to you. Stuck you in the eye, didn’t she? And I heard that you were so popular as a warrior, how embarrassing for you. Tell me, can the rest of the North stand to be around you anymore, or have you been holed up in your rooms like a kicked puppy because none of them want to chat with your disgraced ass anymore?”

He straightens himself up, as if trying to intimidate her by towering over her. It does not work; if anything she becomes even more predatory in response. “I can’t see how it’s any of your business. Since you are neither from the North, nor experienced enough in fighting to know what an injury is.”

“Right yes, silly me, you’re the one with so many decades in the field. All that prancing around with a sword and you couldn’t defend against one human?” Sartoris tuts, clicking her tongue sharp as a switch on Draagh’s wrist. “Is it just that the North trains poor fighters, or have you been riding around on the coattails of your sire for your entire existence?”

A lady gasps with glee. More vampires have been drawn over by now, gathering around Lady Sartoris as though pulled by a magnet.

Draagh snaps, “Lord Marr needs to keep you on a leash.”

“I could say the same of you, but Baras has no need to walk a blind dog. Scurry back to the safety of your kennel, I’m sure there’s a warm fire you can nap in front of.”

“I _outrank_ you!”

As more vampires circle around the magnificence of Lady Sartoris, Gimrizh finds it easy to slip into the crowd and step away. Despite her blanket hatred of vampires, she finds herself feeling surprisingly amicable towards Sartoris at the moment. There’s a spring in her step as she walks away from the stand off.

Before she’s out of earshot, she hears Sartoris’s scathing voice ask, “Do you look in the mirror every morning and tell yourself that?”

Gimrizh signals a passing server over.

“Yes, er, highness?”

“Can you do me a favor? Please send your finest bottle of something strong and delicious to Lady Sartoris, with my compliments.”

The server hurries off and Gimrizh saunters over to the lonely corner where Ille is curled protectively around a glass of whiskey. He’s close enough to Ser Ovech to be performing his duties as an escort, but far enough away that Gimrizh isn’t worried about their conversation behind noticed.

“Highness,” he says to her in greeting, his mouth hanging open slightly. “I - I wasn’t expecting another chat with you.”

She ignores that and leans in, “You may want to make the discussion we are about to have private.”

Ille’s eyes narrow as she assumes he throws up an aura of silence. “This I certainly wasn’t expecting. What discussion, exactly, are you here for?”

“I know you hate Baras. I can’t blame you for doing so, I despise the man myself.” She lets out a long sigh. “I’m dead. I know I am. But I want to hurt Baras before I go. He ordered my capture, he dragged me here, he humiliated me, and he destroyed me and I am going to make him suffer for it.”

“So you came to me.” She can see Ille give her his complete attention, a single-minded intense focus that catches her off guard for a moment. His gold eyes practically pin her in place as her listens to her words. “I’ll do it.”

“I haven’t told you what my plan is.”

“Don’t need to. If it hurts Baras, I’ll do _anything._ ”

That’s what she’d been hoping for. Gimrizh reaches up her sleeve and withdraws the letter. “Sometime after midnight, give this to Baras. I assume you know most of the other guards here, those that came with you from the North and are more loyal to Baras than you?”

He nods.

“Good. Give this to someone that he won’t be suspicious of, but that you trust to get the message straight. Tell them that this was sent by Mancer Vette, to Jaesa Willsaam, and that it was intercepted along the way.” She dislikes having so many elements of her plan be out of her hands, but she has to trust in Ille’s hatred of Baras. “It’s crucial that he knows who sent it, and who the intended recipient is. And I also need the guard you select to be someone who won’t open the letter. No one can see it besides Baras, or this won’t work.”

Ille closes his hand around the letter, a tremor in his fingers that’s not fear. It’s sheer anticipation. “It’ll be done. Exactly as you say.”

“Thank you,” she says, sincerely grateful.

It’s unexpected, but not unwelcome when Ille clasps his hand around her wrist, marking this as more than just a favor, as a solemn pact. “I’ve spent fifty years unable to move against him, where a human can in a matter of days. Perhaps our kind is not always so superior.”

She has no response to that. She’s too shocked.

“I ask only this,” Ille adds, “That I be there to watch when this comes to cut at Baras.”

“If all goes according to plan, everyone will see.”

His smile is thin and vicious, stiff as though his face has forgotten all expressions that are not bitter. “Baras deserves no less.”

“My thoughts _precisely_.”

She tightens her grip for a second and then lets go. Ille slinks off into the dark halls at the edge of the ballroom and she steps back into the shining light of the night sky and the thousand candles and crystals that make the room glow. Almost everything is in place, the gears of her plan carefully wound and ready to be released.

The only part left to play is her own.

As she climbs one of the massive spiraling staircases, she can look down and see Draagh trying to extract himself from the large group that Sartoris has called over to mock him and laugh. Bastard. He deserves it. At least he won’t be bothering her for the rest of the evening, and if things go according to plan, he won’t remain a problem for much longer.

On the upper levels, it’s slightly quieter, subdued. No wonder Malavai’s up here.

He cuts an elegant figure, a glass of dark red in his pale hands as he looks down, his eyes following the scene Draagh is causing.

“Malavai,” she says softly as she approaches. His eyes snap up to her, and his gaze shouldn’t make her hesitate, but for the briefest of moments, it does. “I hoped I’d see you tonight. I wanted to speak. In private. If that’s alright.”

For a second she thinks he’ll turn her aside as he did in the early hours of the morning, but then he nods slightly. “Of course. Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kryn Sartoris belongs to inquisitorhotpants and Maranel Thrask belongs to riajade01, who both requested that their ocs make cameos :)


	4. Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Gimrizh's life.

~*~

Despite knowing that there’s no escape, Gimrizh finds herself staring out the window in Malavai’s rooms. Behind her, Malavai sits on a settee, one leg crossed over the other as he politely waits for her to find the words she’s searching for.

Outside, the night sky shines with moonlight, stars winking on the horizon as the mountains and forests that stretch out before her gaze are bathed in the rich darkness of the night. Logically she knows that she’d never make it to the forest, but part of her heart still thinks, traitorously, that if she could just reach the tree lines, if she could run under the cover of darkness, maybe, just maybe…

“I…” She lets out a deep breath that she’s been holding, her hands relaxing their tight grip on the windowsill. “I wanted to thank you.”

She turns her head in time to see his confused frown vanish. “For what? As far as I’m aware, my actions would have earned nothing but your scorn, and rightly so.”

When she continues, it’s with an honesty that she hadn’t been expecting. Perhaps she is grateful to him, although he doesn’t deserve it. People should not get awards for basic human decency, yet he was kind where none in this manor would have been. “Earlier, when I was embarrassingly drunk. You could have taken advantage of me and you didn’t - even though I was throwing myself at you. I’m sorry for that by the way. I was - I was not at my best.”

He blinks at her like a startled cat. “You’re... welcome.” There’s a pause before he continues to ask, “Are you… I suppose it’s a foolish question to ask if you’re doing alright.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Has your hangover lessened?”

Gimrizh laughs, a rude snort. “Thankfully, yes. Thank you for letting me get some uninterrupted rest, by the way. That guard you posted at my door, Jillins - he’s clearly not very bright but he’s excellent at following orders.”

There’s a thin smirk on his lips as he leans back. “Ah yes. I find he has his uses.”

The man certainly had been helpful in procuring the strange assortment of items she asked for earlier. As irritating as his bumbling might be, he hadn’t laughed at her, which puts him higher in her good graces than half the vampires here. She casts one last look out the window before turning back to the candlelight of the room. “If only he were fool enough to let…”

 _To let me go_.

Malavai’s not stupid enough to miss her unspoken words. “If there was something I could do to help you…” He doesn’t lie to her, doesn’t go back on his earlier words, that he wouldn’t help her even if she could escape. As much as she hates the truth of that, she appreciates his honesty. “I should perhaps say that I wish I was in a different position.”

“You needn’t explain.” With him sitting and her standing, she finds that for once she’s tall enough to look down on him. “If I’ve learned anything over the past two days, it’s just how complicating this society can be.”

“It certainly can be… difficult.”

“You can say that again.” She finds herself pacing back and forth across the room, her frustration boiling over. “Everyone here is so - so condescending, so wrapped up in their gossip and scandals, and not a single one of them thinks of humans as having so much as a half a brain. Even Lady Thrask - oh she was so polite and charming, but her casual dismissal of humans came through quite clearly without her even bothering to pretend otherwise for my sake.”

She almost thinks Malavai’s going to argue that and then he cedes the point. “The prevailing attitude is that we are - I suppose the best way to put it would be ‘benevolent rulers’ over humans. That our superiority is only natural.”

“Arrogant, the lot of you,” she snaps. The amulet is digging painfully into her toes with every step she takes. “At least with _you_ I know how you would treat me if all this weren’t happening. I can’t say the same for the rest of those here. How many of them only laugh at me because of this game? How many would kill me without hesitation were I just some random human on the street? How many think I am pretty because I am dolled up, or are deciding my worth based on how this stupid party makes me somehow _special?”_

Ugh, these shoes. Gimrizh steps out of them, shoving the slippers partially under the settee so that she necklace doesn’t show.

“Oh do you want to know the worst part?” She continues, aware that she’s ranting and too frustrated to stop. “Draagh. That bastard is probably the only other honest one here! He makes no attempt to hide just how much he wants me dead. Tried to goad me into a fight earlier - just so that he could kill me, of course. Or so that Lady Ekkage could step in and do the job herself, no doubt!”

Malavai straightens up at that. “Draagh attempted to instigate a fight? How? What was he _thinking?”_

“He was tailing me this evening,” she admits, surprised by his sudden concern over Draagh’s actions. It isn’t as though she can’t handle the man. “I doubt he _was_ thinking, but he was rather hard to shake.”

“Ah,” he replies. “So that’s why you asked to speak with me.”

“To get rid of Draagh? Not at all.” She grins at the memory of it. “I got Lady Sartoris to do that for me.”

A laugh burst out of his lips, and he raises a hand to cover his undignified snicker. “Ah, so that was the cause of Lady Sartoris’s scene tonight.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it?” She shrugs and then adds, “And Malavai? I don’t hate your presence enough to resort to using you as a way to shake off Draagh. As I said, I remember how you treated me at the Mancer’s party. You’re one of the more tolerable people here, I wouldn’t throw you under the wheel like that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m _tolerable_? How magnanimous of you, truly I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” she replies, responding to his teasing without even thinking about it, as though it is natural as breathing. “I have high standards - I don’t tolerate just anyone. You have joined the ranks of the elite. But now I’m curious, why did you think I wanted to speak with you?”

“Frankly I thought you just wanted to get me alone,” he admits.

Oh good, they’re on the same page.

“ _Well_ …” she says, dragging the word out into something she hopes sounds sultry. “If that had been my intention, would you protest?”

“If that were your intention, I suppose I would not.” He gets to his feet, holding back a laugh at her abandoned slippers. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home but it’s clear you already have. Or did you just not like the color?”

Just the tiniest hint of polished metal shines out from under her right slipper’s toe, mostly covered by the settee’s shadow, yet enough to make her freeze. Shit. She hadn’t been paying close enough attention when she took them off - if Malavai sees - she remembers his spelled ring, he’d know enough to tell that it’s no ordinary necklace. Maybe he won’t notice - of course he’s going to notice, nobody keeps jewelry in their fucking shoes.

Throwing caution to the wind, Gimrizh grabs the front of his shirt, slowly tugging him closer to her with a flirtatious wink. “Speaking of color, do you like my dress?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get my attention.” With a smirk, he taps a finger under her chin to tilt her head up. “You have no idea how speechless I was after seeing you last night. To have you stroll up to me, wearing the colors of the North - _my_ colors - and then you just ignored me!” He laughs at that, “I was quite furious for a solid ten minutes while my pride recovered.”

“I’m glad to have such a profound effect on you,” she replies, a grin on her lips.

He drops her chin, his hands trailing down her waist, making her shiver even as his cold touch is softened by the fabric of her dress. She finds herself leaning in towards him, the memory of kissing him lingering in the back of her mind. “More than just a shock,” he adds softly. “You looked as beautiful then as you do now. I’ve never seen - _Fuck_!”

As if shocked by lightning, he pulls away with a yelp of pain, clutching at his wrist.

“Shit - Malavai, are you alright - “ She doesn’t understand -

His right hand is shaking even as he holds it protectively to his chest. When she pries his fingers back to look there’s a bright red scorch mark in the center of his palm, welting and faintly smoking. Never before has she seen such an injury in person, although she’s read about it, enough to figure out what caused it.

“What -” He stares at his hand in shock, even as the charred skin heals before their eyes, the red and raw mark fading. “What did you - “

She sheepishly withdraws her knife from it’s hidden pocket at her waist. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was - I thought I’d hidden it better -”

Malavai just gapes wordlessly at the small blade for a moment, recognizing the blessed metal for what it is. “ _How_.” He finally asks. It’s barely a question, more of an utterly perplexed demand as he stares at her. “How do you - First that sword, and then all the knives you pulled during our duel - I’d thought you were just well-prepared, but the letter opener and the fucking _pen_ and now _this_? Just - just _how_?”

“I’m in a manor full of vampires, aren’t I? I need this!” She can feel her cheeks burn red with embarrassment. Awkwardly, she places the knife on settee cushions. “I’ll just… put this down, shall I?”

“Yes, that’d be preferable.” The words are forced through gritted teeth, followed by a pained hiss as he presses his thumb into the healing burn mark.

He shakes his hand out, flexing his fingers, checking for mobility. There’s a harsh white scar on his palm, scraggly and distinct against his skin. It’s not nearly as horrible as the initial burn but it’s - well it’s clearly not fully healed.

“Will it -” Gimrizh hesitates, wincing as she asks, “Will it fade?”

He casts a withering glare at the scar. “Perhaps a little, with time. Blessed steel isn’t - it’s designed to hurt my kind, Gimrizh, of course it isn’t going to heal. Where the hell did you even get that knife?”

“I uh- “ she clears her throat. “I made it. That's what I used to bribe Pierce at the Mancer’s party. He brought it with him here and gave it back to me. Since it was mine to begin with, it’s only fair.” Of course, he only did so under significant duress, but she’s not going to mention that detail to Malavai.

“Why am I not surprised,” he mutters. “I can’t decide if your particular talents are impressive or terrifying.”

She gently takes his hand in hers. The white knot of scar tissue marrs otherwise pristine skin, that strange inhuman perfection of vampires. She presses a soft kiss to the scar, letting her lips linger over his skin. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”

“That wasn’t intentional, was it?” His voice might be teasing, yet she can tell that the question is a serious one.

“No,” she replies. “It was an accident.”

Her plans don’t require him to be injured just yet, and certainly not by her own hand. If she’d taken better care of her knife, he would never have discovered it, and that would have been infinitely preferable to this. And things had been going in just the right direction before the weapon had burnt him.

“I suppose…” She kisses his palm one last time, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I could make it up to you?”

"Oh, you absolutely _will_." His voice is a dangerous purr, and the half remembered tangle of fear and lust sends tingling shivers through Gimrizh's body. And then his lips are on hers and there's nothing courtly or gentle about it. Before, his lips had been like fire and freezing cold together. That's still present, but this time she can feel his fangs and a low, rumbling growl deep in his chest. It's terrifying and also precisely what she wants, in every sense of the word. There's a promise of danger, of perhaps a tad more pain than before.

And there's one less layer of control over his vampiric nature. Good.

His lips sear over hers as the two of them stumble into the adjacent room, and then Malavai pushes her backwards until her knees hit his bed.

“Take off your dress before I rip it off you,” he orders.

Her fingers are clumsy in their haste as she reaches behind her back to undo the long line of buttons. Damn this dress. The silk is tight and uncooperative and she just wants it off. Malavai is an unhelpful distraction, elegantly stepping out of his boots and removing his jacket, neatly leaving that and his vest on the dresser. Even as she tries to focus on removing her skirts, she can feel his gaze lingering on every inch of skin she reveals.

Finally, the stupid silk dress pools at her feet and she turns her attention to the stays of her corset. “I can’t get these damn laces…” she mutters.

“I can help with that.” Malavai steps up behind her and wraps his hands around her waist, her back pulled flush against his chest. “You don’t really need this, after all.”

His fingers pluck the choker from her throat to discard it on the pile of silk. Then he’s languidly kissing her neck, coaxing a moan from her, and it’s suddenly difficult to focus on what he’s said. Her hands cover his as he plucks at the corset laces. “I - Well I suppose I can just wear the dress without anything underneath but - “

There’s the harsh sound of fabric ripping and his claws have torn a line down the front of her corset.

“Hey!” Her protest is half-hearted, more of a teasing laugh than anything else.

Both of them know she isn’t actually complaining when she helps him yank what remains of the corset off her waist. He laughs against her neck, a low chuckle, his fangs deliciously sharp on her skin. “You were too slow. Consider this part of your penance for what you did to my hand.”

“Mm, penance? I might have promised to make this up to you, but I’ve never been a very repentant woman.” She tilts her head back to kiss him with a grin on her lips, chasing that heady memory of his aura, hoping he’ll use it on her again.

Before she can steal a kiss, he winds a hand into her hair and holds her in place. “I don’t think you’ve earned a kiss yet, darling.”

A pang of lust shoots through her, mixed with just enough pain from the tight grip he has on her hair. How she loves this control he has, both over her and in the way he holds himself. She can see how much restraint he’s still holding onto, keeping her exactly where he wants her not just because that particular game proved so enjoyable last time, but also because he doesn’t want to hurt her - or at least, not more than she wants him to hurt her.

For tonight, that won’t do at all. She needs him to let go, to do what he wants - what _she_ wants - without stopping to think it through.

She turns in his arms to tug on his plain white undershirt. Obligingly, he helps her yank it off and then she takes full advantage of all that pale, bare skin to kiss along his collarbone, to drag her nails across his back, delighting in the way he groans before muffling the sound by pressing an open mouth kiss to her shoulder. The sharp sting of his fangs should not be this enticing and yet it still makes her breath hitch.

“So, _my lord_ ,” she asks, trying to taunt him ever so slightly. One of her hands trails over the defined edges of his back, his hips, until her fingers are playing with the hem of his pants. Oh heaven but she can feel how much he wants her as his hand splays over her ass and draw her closer, only a few layers of clothing separating them. “How do you suggest I earn that kiss? Between that and my so-called penance, I’m marking up quite a debt.”

His eyes narrow as he rakes his gaze over her, deliberating what to do with her, a hint of his control slipping. “I _suggest_ you find a better use for that mouth of yours.”

A burst of pain in her scalp makes her cry out as he shoves her to her knees by tightening his grip on her hair and yanking.

Then her cry turns to a low moan because he’s finally let go over whatever was holding his aura back. That strange, vampiric magic licks tongues of fire through her blood, and somehow it is so much more intense than what she remembers. Her desire for him is flared up into a burning need in the span of a second and she readily embraces it.

She knows what he wants - and oh does she want to give it to him - but she has so push him if her plans are to work. So instead she struggles against his grip on her hair for long enough to sit back and meet his gaze.

“I didn’t think your kind were the praying type,” she teases.

His smirk is sharp, wicked, and predatory in a way that makes her embarrassingly wet. “Some sacraments,” he tells her, “are to be taken kneeling.”

The pretense that she is anything but eager is given up as she hastily works on pulling down his breeches and freeing his straining erection. There’s no point playing coy, not when they’re both so worked up, and she doesn’t even need his tug on her hair to greedily wrap her mouth around his cock.

Gimrizh has always been eager to please in bed and this is no exception. She falls into a rhythm, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock as she pulls back and trying to take more of him into her mouth each time she slides her lips down his length.

A litany of Malavai’s curses reaches her ears, a murmured course of “Fuck - that’s it darling, just like that - “

She moans as he uses his tight grip on her hair to take control of her movements, his hips rolling forward as he fucks her mouth. It’s rough to the point where she has to force herself not to gag. Her nails dig crescents into her his hips, silently encouraging him as his restraint cracks and falls away.

Needy emptiness throbs through her cunt and she drops one hand between her legs, a finger tracing desperate circles around her clit until she’s shuddering and gasping just as intensely as Malavai.

Suddenly he’s yanking her up onto her unsteady feet. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” he demands.

His cold fingers close around her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back until he’s got her bent over the edge of the bed. One hand digs into her hair and pulls her up even as he pushes her down, making her back arch to the point of pain. More pleasure jolts through her as her over sensitive breasts drag against the fabric of her shift.

“I asked you a question,” he reminds her, and there’s a world of threat in his voice..

His tone, sends a shiver running down her spine. It’s difficult to think, to form words around the feel of him - especially when he shoves his knee between her legs and oh now there’s glorious friction against her cunt that she has to think around. She can’t help but roll her hips against him even as she knows that bends the rules of the particular game they’re playing.

“Ah - no,” she replies breathlessly, “You didn’t - I couldn’t help it.”

For a moment she thinks he’ll slap her, his palm against her ass, that’s what she’s experienced from other lovers in the past. Instead he throws her fully onto the bed hard enough to punch the air from her lungs. He steps out of his trousers and she takes the cue, scrambling to tug her shift off before he can order her to do so.

“You’ve done a poor job of making it up to me, darling.” He climbs on top of her, pinning her to the sheets under his larger frame.

The blue in his eyes has almost completely vanished, his pupils blown wide and the thin line of gold nearly all the color that remains. She’s bared under his gaze as he devours the sight of her, naked and squirming, desperate for his touch.

One clawed finger tears a line down her breast, sudden sharp pain, and she whimpers when it doesn’t break her skin. “Malavai _please_ ,” she whines, her hands running up his back, trying to pull him closer. Every pulse of his aura through her blood reminds her that he’s still too far away, that she needs him closer, that she needs his fangs digging into her flesh. “I need - please - my lord _please_ -”

“Fuck.” He dips his head, dragging his teeth between her tits, nipping and sucking dark bruises onto her skin, drawing high, needy pleas from her. “You have no idea how enticing you are when you beg.”

“Please, whatever you want - however you want me -” She tilts her head back as he wraps a hand around her neck, his thumb over the pounding vein at the base of her throat.

Just enough air passes under the grip of his hand and the faint lightheadedness only makes her ache for him more. He crudely shoves her thighs apart, his other hand digging into her hip, holding her where he wants her, and she knows she’ll have a bruise in the shape of his fingers there by morning.

Then he’s finally close enough, sliding into her wet cunt, fucking her, filling her, and she sobs with relief.

She can see that last bit of restraint in his dark eyes, the way he pants as he slowly fucks her, his thumb trembling over her fluttering pulse, his fangs digging into his lower lip as though that’s a substitute for her skin.

Please, she thinks. Please let this work, _please don’t stop_ -

Pleasure rolls through her as she hooks her leg around him, her nails scratching angry red lines across his back, making him groan at the pain thrown into the mix. His next thrust is harder, rougher, his grip on her throat tighter. The drag of his cock inside her, the whispers of his aura under her skin, it makes her want to just give herself completely to him, that need for surrender - but she has to push him. He has to bite her.

“Do it,” she pleads, seeing that need in his eyes, that molten hunger. “I want -” Heaven above why is this so difficult to say. “When they - when they - then they’ll see, they’ll know that they wasted three days while _someone else got there first_ -”

She thinks she can pick out another frenzied swear in Malavai’s moan before he buries his lips into the crook of her neck. A sharp scrape - she tenses underneath him, her cunt tightening around him - and then pain bursts through her veins.

It burns. She doesn’t have to fake or exaggerate her scream as his fangs sink into her throat. Tears well up in her eyes and  -

A warm humming pleasure spreads through her, embracing her. Her screams fade into breathless gasps, moaning as every sensation suddenly feels better than she could have ever imagined, his touch searing every part of her as the venom spreads. It makes her melt underneath him.

Something hot and tight coils low in her belly as he fucks her into the mattress. Her head feels fuzzy, her only focus on rising her hips to meet him, begging him to keep going - “ _Please,_ Malavai, my lord - please don’t stop -”

When she comes, the venom only heightens her orgasm, draws it out to the point where is almost hurts.

Malavai’s voice purrs praises against her throat, telling her how good she feels around him, how wonderful she tastes. He doesn't relent, keeps her squirming in a painful bliss as he fucks her, his tongue lapping up her blood, deepening the bite, pulling her closer until he’s so deep inside her that she comes a second time.

Only then does he reach his own completion, his claws on her hip piercing her skin and making her blood spill onto the sheets. She feels his shout more than she can hear it. His fangs are still buried in her flesh, drinking her blood as though he’s determined to wring every last drop from her veins.

It’s her turn to wind a hand into his hair, boneless and weak. “I - I only have so much blood to give,” she reminds him, even as the venom running through her couples with his aura to try and convince her that wants nothing more than for him to drain her entirely.

At that, he pulls himself off her. It leaves her feeling achingly empty, dragging one last blissful noise from her lips.

“I - Sorry - I meant to stop sooner,” he admits, “but the taste of you - the way your blood tastes when you come -” His lips are painted red with her blood. As she watches, a drop of it rolls down the corner of his mouth only to be caught as he licks his lips, unwilling to waste any bit of her.

She reaches out to him, “Heaven above, I am not complaining. That was - saying it was the best sex I’ve ever had doesn’t even come close to describing how that felt.”

He lazily drags a finger under her chin, tugging her up to sit next to him. “I think you’ve earned that kiss, darling.”

“Oh really?” She laughs, leaning over to crush her lips against his.

The harsh bite of iron lingers on his tongue as he kisses her. Nothing about the taste appeals to her except that it is on _his_ lips and _his_ teeth and that he so clearly got off on that base essence of her.

When she has to pull back to catch her breath he stands up and leaves her for a moment. He pulls his breeches back on, heading to one of the dressers against the wall and searching through for something. His movement are too neat and precise for her to say he’s rummaging around, a frown on his lips as he picks his way through a small chest, one that would fit jewelry perhaps.

Gimrizh is unashamed to say that her eyes linger on his as he moves, the curve of his ass, the ripple of his back muscles, the elegant dexterity of his fingers.

Search complete, he returns to the bed with a blunt quill and a stone inkwell.

“No offense,” she asks, raising an eyebrow at the objects, “But I’d prefer it if you didn’t get ink on the sheets.”

He laughs at her, pushing a few strands of her hair away from her neck as he sits by her side. “It isn’t ink.” He traces the bite mark on her neck before leaning down to gently lick away the blood that’s welled up from the wound.

She huffs, too content with the partial success of her plan to actually be annoyed. “I can’t know what it is unless you tell me.”

“It’s a tincture of yarrow and water from Savis’s moonpools,” he informs her. He holds out the quill for her to run her fingers over. It’s a tiny thing, a small shimmering blue feather that’s almost black. “That’s a magpie feather. Now stay very still for me, darling.”

Her curiosity is too great for her to move. The tip of the quill is dipped into the tincture, a fresh, sunny smelling liquid. Malavai places the inkwell down on the bed so that he can keep on hand on her shoulder, steadying her, as he uses the quill to draw a complex circle around the bite mark. It’s a challenge not to wince from the pain as he then presses his thumb into her open wound.

“Oh.” Her lips fall open in a gasp.

Because she can feel movement under her skin, the familiar dregs of his aura suddenly crawling through her veins up towards her neck, curling around the bite. Oh it hurts, yes, only the pain is overshadowed by a warm humming sensation.

Malavai removes his hand. “You can touch now, if you like.”

Immediately she feels out the mark on her neck. The tincture has vanished, and there’s the rough forming of a scab around the bite mark. It’s far from healed, but the bleeding has stopped and it will scar over cleanly. And the unpleasant ache that’s been lingering around her neck is gone completely. No pain whatsoever.

“How…?” she asks, her fingers still tracking the injury.

“I have some small skill in healing magics,” he admits as he puts the quill and the inkwell away on the nightstand.

She tugs on his arm, pulling him back into bed with her so that she can tuck her head under his chin, their legs tangled together in contentment. “No small skill, I’d say. The pain has completely disappeared. Thank you.”

“You seem to be constantly thanking me tonight,” he says, almost tauntingly.

“Consider it part of ‘making it up to you’.”

“You needn’t…” She can feel his scarred hand form a tight fist on her back. His voice is quiet enough that she almost misses his reply. “It’s no less than I deserve.”

“What do you mean?”

“This… It will last longer than you.”

No.

Not if she has anything to say about it. She’s halfway there, she’s got him to bite her in just the right way, she just needs to wait for the rest of her plans to unfold. She’s going to live. The unnatural long life of vampires will become hers, she will beat every single bastard in this manor, and she won’t let anything stop her now. She grits her teeth together, unwilling to let the steady rise and fall of his chest comfort her.

Malavai is, and has always been, just another piece for her use and nothing can change that, not even his attempts at kindness.

“Just don’t,” she tells him, “I can’t - I wanted to be with you so that I didn’t have to think about - well - about anything. Please, just let me have a few hours of peace before the third day dawns.”

“Of course.” She hates how genuinely apologetic he sounds. “Whatever you want.”

“Mm, you already gave me what I wanted,” she purrs, “And may I just add - you did a very good job of it.”

He laughs and she can feel the sound rumble through his chest. “I feel I must rescind my earlier words. You are _quite_ skilled in flattery.”

“What can I say. I have a talented tongue.”

“I can certainly attest to that.”

In the peaceful quiet between the two, she can hear the distant music from the main hall, floating through the manor. It seems that in her earlier enthusiasm, she has completely lost track of the time. The orchestra is playing a completely different tune than before. “I never did get to dance with you, did I?” she asks absently. “It’s for the best, I suppose, I’m a terrible dancer.”

He gently cards his fingers through her hair. “Did you never wish to learn?”

“Oh, I wanted to. I just always found myself lacking the time.” She pauses, “At the Mancer’s party, you said that you felt as though you knew barely anything about me. Is that still bothering you?”

“Perhaps.”

She pushes herself up, leaning over him, her eyes staring into his. “Don’t let it. The less you know about me, the better it will be for both of us.”

A frown wrinkles his brow. “Gimrizh, if - “

His reply is lost forever to the scream that suddenly shatters through the Citadel.

“What is that?” he gasps, eyes wide.

The two of them bolt upright and scramble out of bed as the sounds of chaos begin to ripple through the halls. Malavai grabs his discarded shirt and tugs it on even as Gimrizh fastens her choker back around her neck.

“Stay here,” he tells her firmly, “If there’s a problem - “

She’s already stepping into her dress, her fingers flying across the buttons. “You can’t stop me from seeing what’s going on - ”

“This isn’t a human’s -,” he curses, even as quickly does the top few buttons that’s she’s struggling to reach. “Fine then, but if there’s danger - ”

“Then nothing will have changed for me, will it?”

He has no good reply to that, and she’s already sliding her slippers onto her feet. Her knife is exactly where she left it, and she slips it into her skirts as he grabs his rapier and the scabbard belt it’s hanging in. The cold necklace digs into her soles as she rushes to follow him from his rooms.

The clatter of guards running in full armor bangs through the halls.

Malavai practically flies up the nearest staircase with her hot on his heels, her skirts bunched up in her hands so she can take the steps two at a time.

Another set of screaming guides them. Or, it guides Malavai. Gimrizh has to be careful that she remains behind him and follows his lead, never giving away that she already knows where the screams are coming from.

A crowd has already formed around the hall when they arrive, half the partygoers drawn over from main hall by now.

Malavai shoves his way through the throng of people, leaving just enough space behind him for Gimrizh to follow in his shadow. No one notices her, all eyes are on the scene ahead, all the noise is shouts of shock or whispers -

“Is it her?”

“Are they sure, maybe someone’s got it wrong - “

“Who could possibly have done such a thing - “

“Are we safe?”

Like a tide receding from the shore, the crowd finally parts to allow her and Malavai through to the clearing that’s been formed in the center of the massive hallway.

They’re not the first on the scene. Vowrawn surveys the crime while Marr snaps orders at the guards, setting up a perimeter to keep the revelers back, trying to clear space. Someone else is there, a lord wearing the blue and black crest of the North. Whoever he is, he must be on equal footing with Malavai, or else he’d have no cause to be so close and Marr would probably have tossed him behind the line of guards by now.

And on the floor, is Ekkage.

Blood pools across the marble floor beneath her still body. Her eyes are open, glassy, unmoving. Gimrizh has to bite back her own bile at the stench - and at the sight of Ekkage’s head sitting a foot away from her neck. Death isn’t new to her, she would just prefer not to smell it quite so strongly.

If nothing else, Gimrizh has to give credit to Pierce. The man did an excellent job. Clean cut, obviously made with a sword, and the metal has burned Ekkage’s flesh enough to make it clear that it was done by one sword in particular.

Malavai draws in a sharp breath when he sees the body. “Oh _hell_.”

“Lord Quinn!” The lord from the North that Gimrizh doesn’t know ushers Malavai closer, “It’s good you’re here. We have no idea what’s going on and well - it’s good to see that you’ve shown your face, if you get my meaning.”

Malavai’s shaking ever so slightly but he draws himself up and purges the emotion from his face entirely. “Lord Hurdenn. And my Lord Vowrawn, Lord Marr. Do we have any idea who…”

“None,” Marr replies, tone brisk, efficient, and utterly in charge. “A human servant passed Lady Ekkage’s body not ten minutes ago and raised the alarm. She has already been questioned and taken into custody, but it’s doubtful that she saw anything. Her story claims that Ekkage’s body was abandoned by the time she arrived on the scene.”

“Has General Organa been located?” Malavai asks.

Marr nods, a sharp short movement. “She was rather visible in the main hall the entire evening and as such, she has already been sent to locate whoever saw Ekkage last.”

Good. Gimrizh would hate it if the wrong person were implicated by all this. Not because she gives a damn about Organa’s safety. It’s just that she needs everyone here to come to the right conclusion and she’s a tad short on time. It’s her third and final day. She only has until the evening for everything to fall into place.

“Get everyone out of here,” Vowrawn orders. There’s a faint grin on his lips - of course he finds this entire thing amusing. “We don’t need an audience.” He waves his hand at the two Northern lords. “Quinn, Hurdenn, you two may stay, at least until Baras has arrived.”

The order is conveyed to the guards who hastily clear the halls under the watchful eyes of Lord Marr.

None of them notice that Gimrizh stays right where she is.

“What was Lady Ekkage doing in the north wing?” Hurdenn asks. “Why did she leave the party yet not to return to her own quarters?”

Vowrawn delights in that unknown. “Good question! The mystery deepens!”

One of the group of soldiers gets addressed by Marr, who immediately orders, “Locate Jaesa Willsaam. If this was an attack against the West itself, instead of just Ekkage, then Willsaam will be the next target. Keep her secure.”

Gimrizh clears her throat and steps forward from behind Malavai’s shadow. “I can help with that.”

All four of them turn to face her. “Ah, majesty!” Vowrawn croons. “How lovely to see you here.”

“Yes,” she replies slowly before continuing, “As I was saying, Miss Jaesa Willsaam is currently in my chambers, with Mancer Vette. I would advise that whoever goes to guard her knock politely first.”

Malavai’s brown furrows, his lips parting ever so slightly as he stares at her. She stares right back. It doesn’t matter if he knows about Vette and Jaesa being married or not. In the grand scheme of things, that particular relationship being revealed is meaningless. All that matters is that Jaesa is immediately dismissed as a suspect. Marr’s order might have been to protect Jaesa, but they all know it is also to ensure that Jaesa has an alibi. After all, she stands to gain quite a lot from Ekkage’s death.

“Well isn’t that delightful,” Vowrawn says. He shoos the guards, “Go go! Off to her highness’s chambers!”

Marr is less enthused. “Word of this will spread throughout the manor in a matter of minutes, we can’t keep this place under control for long. We need to send everyone back to their rooms as soon as possible. If this killer is going to strike again, we need to know where everyone is at all times.”

“Hm.” Vowrawn bends down to kneel next to Ekkage’s corpse. “What I want to know is what caused these burns.”

Hurdenn and Malavai step closer to see exactly what he’s talking about, his finger pointing at but not touching the scorch marks that linger on both halves of Ekkage’s severed neck.

“That -  That can’t be Engelmancy!” Hurdenn sputters.

“It’s not.” Malavai, his face paler than usual and shock clear in his eyes, beckongs Gimrizh over with a trembling hand. “I’ve seen this before. Highness. Tell me.” She can hear the _please_ in his voice, a desperate wish that she won’t confirm his suspicions, because if she does then it means there is only one likely culprit. A culprit that Malavai, who has not stopped being loyal to Baras even after the man got his brother killed, does not want to accept.

Gimrizh pretends to look over the burns. Pretends to deliberate on her answer. Pretends that she is out of her depth and scared. Pretends that she isn’t grinning with triumph inside. “This - this can’t be right. My lords, this - well this looks like my work. My sword did this.”

“And who had that sword last?” Marr demands.

Malavai’s reply is a hoarse whisper. “Lord Baras. But that can’t - Lady Ekkage is his sister. He would not.”

A thrilled, fascinated grin spreads across Vowrawn’s features. “And yet our dear Baras has failed to show his face here, hasn’t he? I am rather curious as to where we shall find him.”

Marr barks orders at the squad of soldiers. “Search Baras’s quarters. Find the man himself and bring him to the main hall. And find anyone who’s knew of Baras’s movements tonight. Anyone who may be able to confirm an alibi. Oh, and get a few servants to clean up this mess.”

“Take her to the tomb,” Vowrawn agrees, “She can rest in the Citadel for now, until we discover more.”

The troops march off on their orders, two soldiers remaining behind to deal with Ekkage’s body and stand watch.

“Hurdenn, Quinn, until we uncover Baras’s role in this ghastly matter, I need one of you to remain as a representative for the North. Unless Draagh decides to show himself,” Vowrawn decides as he and Marr make for the main hall. “Darling Organa can serve as such for the West once she returns.”

Hurdenn nods respectfully - almost differentially - to Malavai. “I’ll go get the rest of us. We might need to call a council. Who even knows what’s happening here anymore.”

The two part ways, with Malavai following Vowrawn and Marr. “Gim - Majesty,” he says quietly, stiffly, to Gimrizh, as though even calling her by her first name is unacceptable in front of others. “You should -”

“Come with us of course,” Vowrawn declares. “I’m sure her highness has some more insight to share on this matter.”

Like hell Gimrizh is leaving.

With that decided, she follows the three vampires back to the main hall.

“Lord Vowrawn, Lord Marr,” Malavai implores them as they head down the central staircase. “I beg you to consider why Lord Baras would be involved in the death of his sister. He has never dishonored the North, there is no reason he would do so now. Lady Ekkage’s death buys him nothing - in fact it weakens his influence in the West. Surely, my lords, he cannot be a suspect, it defies sense -”

Marr cuts him off. “There is no point in pleading his case. Either Baras is innocent or he is not. And I would remind you that you are only here until Draagh is found.”

At that, Malavai holds his tongue.

When they arrive in the main hall, Qet is already dutifully on guard, a wickedly sharp spear in his hands that Gimrizh can’t remember seeing him wield before. Of course, he did not need it for her. Only a mysterious vampire killer gets such an honor. If she were not trying to keep attention away from herself, she’d laugh at the irony.

“After you, majesty,” Vowrawn says cheerfully, ushering Gimrizh to take a seat in the false throne that sits at the head of the hall.

She does, quietly sitting down, and is then ignored by all of them, Malavai included.

Good. His preoccupation falls now to the House of the North, not to her. If she has planned this properly, he won’t think of her very much - he won’t have enough time to think about what she’s done or how this could benefit her. She doesn't even have much left to do. Her chess board has been set up. Either the pieces will fall together properly, or she will have to do some messy improvisation.

“This would look better if both Draagh and Baras hadn’t vanished at the same time,” Marr remarks.

Vowrawn just laughs. “That duo never ceases to provide amusement.”

“Lord Draagh has taken up the habit of remaining in his rooms,” Malavai tries. She can’t believe he’s loyal enough to defend Draagh, given how she knows of his dislike for the man. “It’s possible he simply has not been informed of recent events.”

“If that’s the case, he shall be located extremely quickly,” Marr retorts.

The first to report to the hall is one of the guards sent to Baras’s chambers.

“My lords,” she says, bowing her head low. In her heavily gloved hands, she holds out Gimrizh’s sword, drenched in dark red blood that faintly smokes against the blessed steel. There is a sheet of cloth wrapped securely around the handle to protect any vampires who might touch it. “I discovered this in Lord Baras’s quarters. I beg you, do not touch it with your bare hands. The entirety of it burns our flesh.”

She lays it down on one of the long tables closest to them.

“Well that’s incriminating,” Vowrawn chirps.

Marr lets his hand rest an inch above the metal, his eyes examining the blade. “Do we have any way of knowing if this is Ekkage’s blood?”

“Not unless you feel like licking the puddle she left behind and then decide to try and lick this - this _mess_ of blessed steel and silver. Go right ahead, if you want. I certainly won’t stop you, but you might have a bit of trouble after it burns your tongue out of your skull.”

“You could attempt to take this seriously.”

“Serious? Me? Why I am being perfectly serious, my dear Marr. It’s hardly my fault that this is the most exciting thing to happen this whole decade.”

“The West is destabilized once again.”

“I’m not happy about that, no. I simply enjoy the mystery. And I’ll enjoy putting the culprit to the stake just as much.”

It seems Vowrawn’s mirth has limits. Gimrizh must remember the threat he poses, that he can only be swayed so far by entertainment and games. As clear a threat as Marr is, he is obviously a military man. Clever to be sure, but she can understand the man barking orders and taking command of the situation as easily as breathing.

The strength of Vowrawn remains clouded before her eyes. She knows he's dangerous without fully understanding exactly what sort of danger. That glimmer in his eyes, that faint hint that perhaps he is not fully sane, matched with aged experience and apparently an unshakable grip on the South - she has to keep a close eye on him.

“I suppose it is possible that someone else used this to take dear Ekkage’s head,” Vowrawn acknowledges, fiddling with his goatee.

Marr is not convinced. “It would have to be someone who knew where he kept this, when he would be out of his rooms, where Ekkage's would be and when, could do it without being seen, and has reason to implicate Baras. If you can find me a name that matches that list, I'd love to hear it.”

Oh it is a struggle for Gimrizh not to laugh. Fortunate that none of them so much as look at her.

“Perhaps one of Baras’s guards,” Vowrawn suggests. “Quinn, could you think of someone who fits this puzzle?”

The moment of conflict is clear in the hard lines of Malavai’s visage. He must be considering if Ille played a part in this - indeed, he has undeniable motive in wanting Baras to take the fall. Yet Ille has no motivation behind killing Ekkage other than her relationship to Baras. “None that could have pulled off such a crime,” he says at last. “Some have motive, yes,  and I'm sure one of his closer soldiers could have known his movements - but none who fit both into both categories.”

For they both know that Ille remained by Ovech’ side last night. And that there is no way Baras would have confided anything to Ille about the location of such a sword or where he would be when.

“Draagh,” Marr reminds them, “is still missing. If Baras is innocent, his heir becomes the most likely suspect. That said - I too can see no motive behind either of them killing Ekkage.”

A high, clear voice cuts through the court. “My lords!”

“Ah, General Organa!” Vowrawn greets, far too upbeat for the somber shadow that has befallen the Citadel. “How fared your search?”

The general bows deeply to both of them and gives Malavai a respectful nod. No attention is paid to Gimrizh. In the wake of this serious matter, all have forgotten the game that they are here to play.

Organa gestures to the guard standing behind her, a man dressed in the white and red livery of the West. “Successful, I believe. This man, Yonlach, was, as far as we can tell, the last to see Lady Ekkage alive.”

Yonlach’s bow is even deeper. “My lords. At approximately one hour past midnight, I was summoned by Lord Baras. He ordered me to inform Lady Ekkage that he requests her presence in his chambers to discuss something. I relayed the message after some time - my Lady Ekkage was conversing with a number of the other guests and requested not to be disturbed.”

“Was there any indication of what Lord Baras wished to discuss?” Malavai asks hastily.

“No, my lord.”

Marr holds up a hand to stop Malavai and turns to address the guard. “Walk us through exactly what Baras did and said. Did anything about the encounter catch your eye?”

“He was reading a letter when he called me over,” Yonlach recalls. A vicious satisfaction coils up inside Gimrizh at that. Good. It wouldn’t do for one of the most important pieces of her game to be forgotten. “He said… ‘I must speak with my sister. Send her to meet with me in my chambers’. After that, he headed towards the southern wing in rather a hurry.”

“And Ekkage’s reaction?” Marr prompts.

“She didn’t appear to know what Lord Baras wanted to speak of either. She also asked me if I could tell her more, and when I could not, she - erm - she huffed at me.”

“You mentioned that you couldn’t relay the message immediately. How much time passed between Baras leaving the main hall and Ekkage departing to the northern wing?”

“Perhaps twenty minutes?”

Marr frowns. “The timing is… curious.”

“What I want to know is what was in this letter Baras had,” Vowrawn declares and thank heavens someone is following the clues Gimrizh has dropped. She doesn’t want Marr to actually find the holes in all this.

As they continue to ask Yonlach what he saw, a heavy hand drops silently down on Gimrizh’s shoulder.

“Pay up,” Pierce says under his breath.

She lets her gaze dart around the room - everyone is focused on Yonlach. No one has even noticed Pierce enter the hall, and it’s likely that they won’t until he announces himself. Pierce is a familiar enough figure that he must have gotten past the guards stationed outside rather quickly. Quick enough for them not to notice his inhumanity. For now at least, they’re in the clear.

Obligingly, she bends down and slips the amulet from her shoe. “A job well done,” she whispers to Pierce as she hands it over.

Before she can so much as blink, he’s got the amulet back around his neck and tucked under his shirt.

Then he clears his throat and steps forward. “Excuse me.”

“Mancer Vette’s bodyguard, I believe?” Malavai confirms, looking at him with a rather suspicious glare.

“Yup,” Pierce says, popping the ‘p’ casually. “Came to tell you that if you’re looking for Jaesa Willsaam or the Mancer’s alibis, I can confirm them. There were discussing business in her majesty’s rooms for most of the evening - something to do with the shipments that the Mancer has been sending to the North. I heard you sent folks to guard them, and I figured you’d want someone else to make sure their story checks out.”

Vowrawn grins. “Good man! Thank you for your input - feel free to head back to your Mancer, I’m sure with all the danger around the Citadel tonight, she’ll have want of your services.”

“Will do.” Pierce nods at them and then turns around to leave.

Gimrizh can see the thousands of questions behind his eyes as he looks her up and down on his way out. None of them she’ll answer. He’ll have to be satisfied with never knowing the full extent of what she’s doing here. Even once the entire business is completed, she doesn’t know who will be able to figure everything out. Hopefully she has spread out her pieces far enough for them to remain undiscovered.

“I am uncertain if we can trust his word,” Malavai says as soon as Pierce is gone. “While I too doubt that either Mancer Vette or Jaesa Willsaam was involved in this, it’s important to keep in mind that Pierce is on the Mancer’s payroll. I’ve dealt with both of them before and he’s been staunchly loyal to her for many years.”

“True,” Vowrawn agrees. “Ah well, so long as Miss Willsaam is kept safe, I’m sure this will work out in her favor.”

The hall is disturbed once again, this time by a soldier bearing the sign of a green dragon holding a bronze spear - the sigil of the East, Gimrizh guesses.

“My lord,” the woman greets, bowing low to Marr. She turns, using her own spear to push a figure into the room. “I have located Lord Draagh.”

The man in question gets back onto his feet, brushing dust from his shirt with little dignity and even less coordination. Gimrizh has to hold a hand in front of her lips to cover her grin - Draagh is almost too drunk to stand.

“Draagh, dear,” Vowrawn greets, holding out a hand to bekon him over. “So wonderful to see you in such high spirits.”

Gimrizh chokes on a giggle.

Draagh straightens up, a haughty pout on his lips. “There had better be a very good reason as to why I have been treated so rudely. I have done nothing wrong, and this is frankly ridiculous, I assure you - “

“He was hiding in the lower levels, my lord,” the soldiers informs them. “Drinking, yes, but he resisted our efforts to get him to corporate.”

“Hiding?” Marr repeats slowly. He crosses his arms and frowns sternly at Draagh, the scar that cuts across his face only making him appear all the more terrifying. “Who were you hiding from?”

Reluctantly, Malavai continues to try and excuse Draagh’s behavior. “From what I heard of  tonight, I think he was hiding from Lady Sartoris.”

“I was not _hiding_!” Draagh insists. “I was _avoiding_ Lady Sartoris - there’s a difference - and _no_ \- I _wasn’t_ \- “

Vowrawn’s fits of giggling cut him off. He has to brace himself on a nearby table, one hand on the wood, one hand pointlessly covering his mouth. When he finally gets his breath back, his face is redder than summer cherries. “Fortunately for you, my dear Draagh, there are dozens that can confirm your -” He has to stop and laugh again. “ - your rather enthusiastic desire to avoid Lady Sartoris. And I admit I can see your reluctance to avoid any Eastern soldiers after such a - ah - _thorough_ encounter with the lady.”

If Gimrizh didn’t know better, she’d say Marr looks embarrassed.

“Regardless,” Marr continues, “It would be best if you remain here until this matter has been resolved. Whoever killed Ekkage is still on the loose.”

Draagh’s mouth flaps open. “Ekkage?” Suddenly far more sober, he drags a hand through his hair, cursing. “Oh shit, she can’t be - fuck. So that’s what all this is about, that’s why you dragged me here, that’s why - oh hell. My aunt is dead.”

The armed soldier who brought Draagh in still follows him even as he sinks into a chair, his shoulders slumped from shock and exhaustion.

“Have you been in touch with your sire tonight?” Vowrawn asks.

“What?” Draagh slowly shakes his head. “No. Do you think that whoever killed my aunt is likely to attack my sire as well?”

Vowrawn shrugs. “That’s half of it.”

“You mean - No - no my sire didn’t do this. My Lord Baras _cannot_ be a suspect.” Anger is fading in over his grief and confusion now. Anger, and _indignation_. Does he really think that rank will keep them safe forever? “This is outrageous - this is _absurd!_ What would even possess you to think such a thing?”

“We have found ourselves in possession of the murder weapon,” Marr informs him, gesturing to the sword that lies, glistening with metallic shine and blood alike, on the table before them. “Whoever killed Ekkage had unimpeded access to this sword, and was well informed enough to know Ekkage’s location. We have _also_ discovered that Baras summoned Ekkage to his chambers. If it was not Baras behind this, it was someone with uncanny knowledge of both Baras and Ekkage’s movements.”

Draagh stares at the sword. He blinks. And then his face contorts into a furious snarl as he leaps to his feet and turns to Gimrizh.

Ah shit.

“You!” He angrily spits the words at her. “You did this. That’s your fucking sword - you killed my aunt - you’re framing my sire - you filthy _human_ \- “

Before he can so much as take a step in her direction, the Eastern guard flips her spear across his torso and shoves him back into his chair, keeping him pinned down. He tries again and meets the spear’s swift resistance. At that, he doesn’t try a third time.

Malavai removes his hand from the rapier at his waist - when had he reached for his weapon? Did he think to stand between Gimrizh and Draagh? “Lord Draagh,” he says sharpy, “Calm yourself. Her majesty did not do this. We arrived on the scene together - I can vouch for her location tonight.”

Draagh bares his fangs at Gimrizh but says nothing more.

If Vowrawn wasn’t paying her and Malavai more attention now, she’d be tempted to give Draagh a defiant wink. But alas, their backs are no longer turned away from her. She can only let them see the frightened, confused human that they expect to see, or else her entire plan could fall apart.

“I suppose dear Draagh isn’t much of a suspect anymore,” Vowrawn comments.

Marr doesn’t give the signal for his soldier to release Draagh regardless. Either he still suspects Draagh, or he’s just aware of the potential trouble that letting him go would cause. “That is yet to be confirmed. No one can _actually_ prove his alibi.”

“Hm yes. Let’s enjoy the pleasure of his company while this mystery unfolds.”

“You could at _least_ let me out from underneath your dog’s weapon,” Draagh demands, glaring up at the guard that’s stoically keeping him pinned down. “I refuse to be treated like this. It’s _rude_.”

“My lord, your actions have determined this more than any attempt at rudeness.” Apparently Malavai’s defense of Draagh only goes so far.

“ _My_ actions? You have no right to even _be here_!”

“I showed up, which is more than could be said for you. If you hide in the basement of the Citadel and refuse to show your face, then someone else must stand for the North. I only did what my duty to the House of the North requires, nothing more.”

“How was _I_ supposed to know that my _aunt_ would be _assassinated_!?”

“You couldn’t have. What you _should_ have done is be aware that we are not in the North and that you have a duty as Lord Baras’s heir apparent to remain presentable. Instead you drank Lord Vowrawn’s best wine. If you’d maintained a sense of decorum, then you would have been alert enough to know what happened sooner. I daresay half the people under this roof arrived on the scene not two minutes after the alarm was sounded and the other half were trying to push their way in -”

“You have no authority to question or judge my actions! I am _not_ one of the other socialites here that spend their hours simply partying - “

“Silence.” Marr’s cold tone slices through their shouting without him having to so much as raise his voice. “Or I shall place both of you under guard and the North shall have no voice in this investigation whatsoever.”

They both shut up, Malavai’s jaw snapping shut and Draagh returning to his sullen glares.

A voice echoes in the outer halls, made clearer by the silence that Marr’s enforced. Footsteps as well filter in and getting louder by the moment.

And then a heavily armed guard of eastern soldiers pushes Baras into the main hall.

“How good of you to join us,” Vowrawn says brightly.

Fury contorts Baras’s face as he casts a glare around the room, his eyes skipping over Gimrizh quickly enough. “This is outrageous.” His tone is booming, angry, a reflection of Draagh’s complaints. “I will not stand for it. None of you have power over me - I demand to be released at once.”

One of the guards bows to Marr before handing over two objects, placing them respectfully on the table. “We found him on route to the stables, my lord. He was attempting to flee the Citadel. He was holding onto these.”

Vowrawn examines the evidence while Marr turns his attention back to Baras. “Flee?” he asks, the question flat, assertive, and above all an accusation. “I take it you are aware of your sister’s death then. Is there a reason your first thought was not to sound the alarm, or to find her killer, or even to cooperate in the investigation, but to run from the scene of the crime? Your actions are not those of an innocent man.”

Baras doesn’t so much as flinch. “I demand that my property is returned to me at once.”

“You are in no position to make demands.” Marr points to the bloodied sword. “This is yours, is it not?”

“I did not use it to kill my sister,” Baras sneers.

“And yet it was found in your rooms, and Ekkage’s body was found _near_ your rooms, and you have fled from the scene of her murder with the intent of returning to the safety of the North, is that correct?”

“You have no authority to accuse me.”

“No,” Vowrawn cuts in, his voice surprisingly quiet. “But as you are under _my_ roof and in _my_ lands, _I_ do have that authority.” He holds up the items, a letter and a handkerchief and gestures for Malavai to come closer. “And I believe there is someone else here who also has the right to air grievances against you.”

Baras makes an aborted movement towards the letter, a flash of fear flickering across his face as Malavai slowly takes the letter.

Perfect. Gimrizh leans forward in her seat, hope for what is to come shortening her breath.

“Read it,” Vowrawn orders. “Feel free to skip the first few lines.”

Malavai skims through the first half of the letter - the love poem crap - and his mouth silently forms the words until he reaches the second half. “ - ‘The time has come at last for me to reveal information concerning the Western Campaign. Your master has done well to burn all evidence surrounding his actions, but with your return to the public’s eye at last, there is a chance that I can follow you back to the North and secure the only piece of evidence that remains.’”

“There is no such -” Baras tries before a withering glare from Marr silences him.

“‘While I cannot say what, exactly, I will find in the North,’” Malavai continues, frowning at the words as he reads, “‘I know that there are ledgers confirming correspondence between Baras and the church during the -’” Malavai gulps, his knuckles bone white as he grips the letter. “‘- during the Western Campaign. My belief is that Baras sent location of the Willsaam ancestral homes to the church likely in exchange for advance notice of a Marshall raid in the West. The date stamps on the correspondence will confirm this theory, I am sure of it.’”

Draagh strains against the spear holding him down. “Lies! My sire would never -”

“Stay _down_.” For the first time, General Organa is the one to snap at him. “I swore allegiance to the Willsaams before I made that vow to Lady Ekkage and I would hear what has been done to the _true_ House of the West.”

Vowrawn waves Malavai forward. “Quinn dear, please, continue.”

“I - “ Malavai hesitates, uncertainty caught between loyalties. “I cannot read this - my line has sworn loyalty to Lord Baras, I will not shame him in such a manner. Please, someone else should handle this -”

Again, there’s that slight softness in Vowrawn’s voice. Does he actually feel pity for Malavai? “I believe that you are the only person who deserves to read this letter. _Continue_.”

At that clear order, Malavai has no choice but to read on. “‘This information was given to me shortly before the end of the Western Campaign, as I was an independent third party who’s investigation into the matter would not be clouded by loyalties. The last information I received on the subject regarded Baras’s letters to Oricon. Unfortunately - ‘“

Malavai stops. His hands are shaking as they hold the paper.

There can be no pity in Gimrizh’s heart for him. There is no room. She has to make this personal for him, and she feels only anticipation at her plans coming together.

“‘Unfortunately,’” Malavai finally continues, the words barely louder than a pained whisper, as if each one is struggle to speak. “‘Lucian Quinn died before he could gather more evidence on this matter. Shortly before his death, he sent me one of his personal effects, revealing the location of where he hid the discovered correspondence. I have brought his handkerchief with me, in the hopes that you can perhaps help me in bringing these crimes to light.’”

He lowers the letter but cannot relinquish it. One hand reaches out for the handkerchief. He hesitates before he touches it, and then delicately turns it over to reveal the coat of arms and the single, messy word stitched next to it.

“ _Stables_ ,” he mutters, and then he tightly closes his eyes. “Of _course_ he would.”

Baras glares at the letter as though he wants to ignite it and let it burn the entire manor down, his fellow lords with it. “None of this can be proven. No such evidence exists.”

“Is that because you covered your tracks after you were able to place your sister in control of the West?” Organa demands. “I always wondered how the Marshalls so effortless located the Willsaams - I am not surprised to find out that you were feeding them information. Of all the lowly tactics you took, Lord Baras, selling us out to _humans_ \- to _Marshalls_ \- is the most despicable.”

He turns his nose up at her. “I put Ekkage in control of the West because you had fallen apart and neither the South nor the East sent aid.”

Marr shrugs. “I was not in charge of the House of the East at the time.”

“The South sent help,” Vowrawn replies, tutting and shaking his head at Baras. “And you blocked us - or the Marshalls did at any rate. How naughty. If you hadn’t involved the Marshalls in all this, I’d almost admire your skill at the game.”

Draagh turns to Baras, pleading. “Sire. Don’t - “

“Don’t say a single word,” Baras instructs him. “There is no way to prove the words of a dead man.”

Vowrawn laughs harshly. “Dead because _you_ killed him. Sending missives to Oricon, were you? Of course, young Lucian figures some of it out - but he’s no spy, you learn that perhaps he has discovered too much, that he is a threat, no? And then you sent him into an ambush to conveniently bury a dissident.”

Baras holds his tongue.

“Don’t want to give yourself away?” Vowrawn teases. “Come now Baras, tell your side of this.”

This is going far better than Gimrizh could have planned. She’d simply _guessed_ at what Baras’s real actions during the Western Campaign were, a bit of conspiracy to fill in the gaps, she hadn’t intended that she’d get such a reaction from Baras. There’s no way she hasn’t guessed far too close to the mark. Maybe not everything she wrote is true, but enough of it must be. As Marr said, his actions are not those of an innocent man. Whatever part of her story he has done, it is enough to make the lies ring true.

And now Baras will refuse to shed light on the matter to risk revealing his actual crimes. In turn, the others shall believe the story Gimrizh has spun for them.

“I have committed no crimes that you or Marr can accuse me of,” Baras grits out.

Vowrawn hesitates and then reluctantly agrees. “True. As far as we know, you’ve done nothing to Marr and you haven’t _really_ done anything to me. You did kill someone under my roof, but that’s for the West to take offense for more than for me. I _will_ demand recompense for the troops that died trying to reach the West, since you sent the Marshalls after them, however.”

“The West won’t stand for this!” Organa declares.

Baras doesn’t balk in the face of her righteous anger. “ _You_ are not the West. I believe the House you serve now has a crisis of succession on its hands. Fling your false accusations when you have someone who can wield them against me.”

“We are leaderless because you killed Lady Ekkage!”

“Why would I kill my sister?”

“My guess? You knew this evidence would make her a liability. I doubt she was ignorant of your plans - no - she probably helped. You decided to cut your losses. What is that Northern saying? ‘Two can keep a secret if one is dead’?”

“If Jaesa Willsaam wants to show her face and accuse me of such ridiculous crimes, then she can do so.”

Both he and Organa know that such a route will take a long time. Jaesa does not rule the West, not yet. If they declare her the Lady of the West, and insist on her having sovereignty in deciding this matter - well, Gimrizh might not be an expert on the politics of vampires but she can tell that Baras will have fled back to the North by then. They would never apprehend him for his crimes.

“Do not think you can slither away from this,” Marr warns. “Don’t forget - it is my men that have dragged you here. I shall prosecute you in the East if I have to.”

“No.”

Malavai’s voice is barely audible. There’s a slight whisper of paper as he puts the letter and handkerchief in his pocket, and then turns to face Baras, his shoulders trembling with rage. “No,” he repeats. His hands form tight fists at his sides. “Lord Marr, you will not prosecute him in the East. _I_ shall do so. Right here, right now, for the crime of murdering my brother.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_ ,” Baras snarls.

Malavai grabs Gimrizh’s sword, his claws digging into the cloth-wrapped handle. In a few determined strides, he steps up to Baras and shoves the sword into his hands. “At noon,” he grits out. “Until then you will be kept under guard to ensure you do not try to flee again.”

“I accept!” Draagh declares, hastily pushing back the spear keeping him in his seat. “I accept on behalf of my sire.”

There is stone cold anger on Malavai’s face as he glares at Draagh. “Lord Baras shall pay the price for his _own_ crimes.”

Baras takes the sword.

“Noon then.” Vowrawn stands aside while Marr has his soldiers escort Baras out of the main hall. “This is certainly going to be interesting to watch. Oh, and I suppose we can let our guests know that the killer has been apprehended.”

“I’ll send the word out.” Organa bows to the group. “If I’m free to leave, I must go to my Lady Willsaam at once.”

“Yes, of course dear.”

“Please excuse me, my lords.”

As Organa heads up the staircase, Malavai quietly steps out of the main hall without fanfare, a dark cloud hovering over him. Gimrizh scrambles to her feet in order to hastily follow him before he disappears into the depths of the Citadel.

She catches up with him halfway into the silent corridors of the north wing and grabs his arm to stop him.

“Gimrizh,” he warns, pushing her away, “This doesn’t concern you.”

It concerns her more than he’ll ever know. “I don’t understand,” she says instead, even though she knows _exactly_ what’s going on. “Are you going to _fight_ Baras?”

“It isn’t - I don’t have a choice.” Malavai tugs a hand through his hair. His dark eyes glisten as though he’s trying to hold back tears and his words are raw, pained and angry at once. “He killed - He’s disgraced the North. To kill his own sister like that, when the both of them are guests in the Citadel - fratricide is bad enough and she ruled the entire West, it’s unspeakable. What he did - what he did to my - “ He takes a deep breath. “No, I have no choice but to duel him and then to kill him.”

“What if he actually manages to kill _you_?”

“I would prefer to die instead of standing aside and letting my brother’s killer walk free.”

And that’s why this will work. If Malavai clung to life as desperately as she does, then her entire plan would fall to ruin.

“What about Draagh?” she presses. “He tried to stand for Baras - surely he knew what his sire did during the Western Campaign.”

That gives Malavai pause. “I - I don’t know. It _is_ likely. Gimrizh please - Hurdenn will have gathered the other high ranking lords from the North, I have to go and - Hell, I can’t let Draagh convince them to believe Baras’s lies. And if Draagh _is_ involved then his position as heir complicates matters - I can’t think about this. Not now.”

She’d prefer it if Malavai lives, although it isn’t _necessary_. It will certainly make things easier if he emerges as the victor. “Just please be careful.”

He gives her no reply before storming off down the hall.

Should she try and eavesdrop on the meeting? She debates that for a moment before deciding it’s a waste of time. They’d probably discover her relatively easily and there’s nothing that they’ll say that she _really_ needs to know. Or that she can’t get later from Malavai. What she does need to do right now is put on proper clothing and get cleaned up. If there’s to be a duel at noon that doesn’t leave much time - and it’s strange to think that it’s past dawn. Baras certainly took a while to locate.

That, and she’s curious to see what Jaesa is up to. The woman is no longer a part of Gimrizh’s plans, for all intents and purposes, Jaesa’s actions matter very little from here on in. There is still the possibility of _Vette_ interfering however. It’s incredibly unlikely, but if Vette were to talk directly to Baras about that letter - no, that would never happen.

Nonetheless, Gimrizh makes her way up the many stairs of the Citadel towards her own chambers.

There’s a buzz spreading slowly through the manor that hadn’t been there before. As guests gradually trickle out from behind their locked doors and bodyguards, rumors begin to fly. She wouldn’t doubt it if Vowrawn has refreshments sent out to ease people’s minds about the whole affair.

Vette has long fled Gimrizh’s chambers, but Jaesa is taking longer to depart with General Organa.

“Highness!” Jaesa says as soon as she approaches. “I’ll be leaving, I’m sure you want to sleep off all the - well, the everything that’s just happened.”

She shrugs it off. “I’m fine. How are _you_ holding up?”

Jaesa exchanges a nervous but excited look with Organa. “I’m doing good. Better than I thought I would be. With Baras - er - _indisposed_ and unable to interfere once again, I might be able to return home. Anything more than that is still up for debate.”

“Things must be finalized,” Organa reminds Jaesa, “but as I have told you, the West has always anticipated your return.”

“Good luck.” Gimrizh claps Jaesa on the shoulder.

The two offer their goodbyes and then Gimrizh has her rooms to herself.

Locking the doors behind her, she sheds her dress as quickly as she can, given the thin layer of sweat that has stuck to the fabric without her shift to protect the silk. She grabs an _obscenely_ fluffy towel from the washroom and dunks it in cold water. If she wanted it warm, she’d have to send for someone and right now she should be as unobtrusive as possible. A rigorous scrub leaves her skin bright pink and tingling.

While she freshens up her makeup, she tugs back the choker to look at the bite mark.

The scab that formed earlier has continued to heal faster than a normal wound, and already the inflamed redness around the punctures has mostly receded. Even when she foolishly decides to poke at it, there isn’t the burst of pain that there should be. She pushes the choker back into place so that it covers the entire mark. Now she just needs to make sure no one discovers it until after Malavai’s duel with Baras.

She also doesn’t want to remind Malavai of it.

Of all the players she’s manipulating, he remains the most crucial. Everything is going according to plan but if he should figure out what she’s doing she could lose in a way that she can’t recover from. Other mishaps can be worked around. Not Malavai. He _cannot_ know she’s using him to turn herself. He can’t even _think_ of turning her himself until after she’s already done it.

She throws open the doors of her closet. Her toes curl into the rug and she ignores the mess of tangled sheets that’s become her bed.

Eventually she selects a dress in blood red with black lace for two key reasons. Firstly - it has pockets. One is deep enough to safely store her small knife. And second - it won’t look out of place if she were to wear black leather gloves along with it. She needs to make sure that if her plan succeeds and if she turns herself, she won’t give herself away by getting burns from her own weapons.

Dressing without Jaesa’s help is less of a challenge than she had been expecting. She can’t tighten her corset as far as she could otherwise, and she needs to do some awkward contortion of her wrists to reach all the buttons, but she manages.

Hell, she misses wearing simple leathers.

She misses her forge. The smell of coal burning, the way she can never fully get oil and steel dust out from under her fingers after a long day of work. Even just the hours working side by side with Tremel, neither of them speaking much beyond callouts of ‘behind’ or ‘hot’ or ‘that’s my hammer not yours I swear to fuck -’

She misses the pungent smell of fish at early morning markets, carried too far inland on carts of ice for it to be truly fresh. She misses the guard at the city gates, she never knew his name, never asked, but he always tipped his hat when she passed and was quick to strike up conversation. She misses being woken up by the chime of the church bell echoing throughout the entire city.

Upper Welshire was her home. And now she’ll likely never see it again.

But she’ll live.

That’s all that matters.

There’s a _click_ at her door. Someone’s trying the handle and finding it locked.

Gimrizh rushes to grab her knife, fumbling for it in the mess of silk that’s she had just tossed over her sofa. Her hand wraps around the ring just as there’s the sound of the lock snapping under pressure.

“Highness,” Draagh croons as he steps into her sitting room. “I think we need to have a talk.”

Shit. She didn’t plan for this. Keeping the knife behind her back, she takes a cautious step away from him. “I think you’re making a mistake. Breaking into a lady’s rooms never reflects well. You’re on thin ice with our host, aren’t you? Pushing that would be a very poor idea, especially since you haven’t your sire’s protection anymore.”

“All according to your plan, am I right?” Draagh’s words freeze her in place. He couldn’t have - he has the fewest pieces of information out of all her players. “You and Lord Quinn, of course _he_ vouched for your alibi this evening, he’s in on it too. What’s he promised you in return for your help, hm? Escape from the Citadel? It’ll never work, he’ll never take the North from me - from Baras.”

She blinks at him. “You - you think Lord Quinn is trying to promote himself in Baras’s stead?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

This is almost hilarious. He actually _believes_ that. It doesn’t even make sense! It doesn’t fit with all the puzzle pieces that she’s carefully laid out, it’s a choppy, inconsistent theory more riddled with holes than a rat’s nest. Her plan’s cornerstone revolves around Malavai’s personality and manipulating him into challenging Baras - and Draagh thinks that Malavai would just go after the Northern rule for no reason other than power? What of the letter? The handkerchief?

It's actually somewhat infuriating how wrong he is. That's one constant though - Draagh continues to underestimate her.

“So you think Quinn and I killed Ekkage.” She groans. “ _Seriously?_ You're a fool.”

Draagh jabs an accusing finger at her. “Then explain why _your_ sword was used. You want to escape and I bet Quinn knew he could string you along with some promise of freedom because you make the perfect tool. No one suspects the human.” He draws himself up with a smug grin. “He played you.”

Wow. It's impressive how completely backwards he has it. “ _Sure_ ,” she drawls. “I honestly can't tell what's more stupid - that you _came up_ with that idea or that you actually believe it.”

“Deny it all you want. Quinn will never rule the North.”

“You know, if that's what you're afraid of you made a shit decision in coming here now. Being absent while Quinn addresses the Northern Council? Does that make you look even more guilty or just doing a sloppy job of being Baras’s heir?” She _does_ laugh at the expression on Draagh’s face. “Didn't think of that, did you?”

“Confronting the true culprit,” he snarls, “isn't a mistake, and the Council will see that.”

“Before or after Quinn’s convinced them you're just as guilty as Baras?”

“You - !” He raises a hand as if to strike. “I’ll - !”

She tenses, knife gripped to defend if need be. “Remember your eye!” she hisses, cutting off whatever vile insults he was about to hurl. “Don't repeat your past mistakes, Draagh, or you shall find yourself completely blind.”

“You and Quinn will lose,” Draagh grits out, as though spitting gravel at her. “I will ensure it.”

“Have fun with that,” she tells him even as he stalks out of her rooms.

With a truly unnecessary _thud_ the door slams shut behind him. The broken handle rattles.

Damn it now she has to fix the locks on her door. Oh well, it's not like she'll still be here tomorrow. If the manor full of hungry vampires doesn't kill her, she'll die at Draagh’s hands. She's gambled everything on this one chance.

She shoves the knife into one of her pockets, waits a moment to ensure Draagh has well and truly fucked off, and then steps out of her chambers into the hallway.

Sunlight streams in from the glass ceiling above the main hall, bathing the opulent court in shining gold.

The long tables have been pushed aside, clearing the floor for the duel that is to come. A large circle has been marked off, facing a line of thrones. One for Gimrizh, two presumably for Marr and Vowrawn, and then another two. Jaesa and Draagh perhaps? Organa? The upper balconies are beginning to fill out as every single vampire in the Citadel would rather die than miss this. The perfect cross between politics and scandal.

Down below, she can see Mara following Vowrawn around with a note board and a long pen, scribbling as he dictates and directes servants. Marr has apparently already fled the center of attention. Wise man.

As she leans against the railing to look down, a familiar figure walking towards her catches her attention.

“Ille,” she says, as bleak and banal as if nothing had ever passed between them. “Good morning.”

He keeps a slight distance, but still within three feet. From a distance, their conversation will not be seen as close or overly friendly. “It’s almost noon.”

“Hm, yes.”

“I’d love to know how sending Baras one simple letter resulted in _this_.”

“Who’s to say that any of this came about from one letter? I understand your curiosity, but I’m afraid that there are some secrets you’ll have to live not knowing.”

“I deliver one letter and suddenly Ekkage is dead, Baras stands accused, and my brother-in-law is fighting my most hated enemy. I feel as though I deserve some explanation. Malavai’s - I don’t want to call him a coward, but he’s certainly been Baras’s obedient attack dog for the past fucking century. This is quite the swap.”

Gimrizh hums thoughtfully. “How much have you actually heard?”

“Nothing,” he says with a grimace. “No one will say anything beyond Baras being the main suspect for Ekkage’s death. Oh, and that Malavai challenged Baras to a duel. I suspect the Northern Council knows the full truth, but that’s only six lords, one of whom _is_ Malavai.”

And of course they wouldn’t say anything. So long as Baras is technically in charge of the North, and Draagh presumed heir, they won’t reveal such disgraceful information, however false it may be. It’d ruin relations with the West, especially given how likely Jaesa’s ascendance there seems to be, and while neither Organa nor Jaesa are going to do anything before the duel has been settled, Gimrizh wouldn’t be surprised if some ser from the West got pissed off and drunk and tried to start shit with the North.

“Once this is all over, and presuming Malavai wins,” she tells him, “I suggest you simply _ask_ him.”

The laugh that slips through his lips is bitter and harsh. “I don’t think I’ve actually spoken to him in almost twenty years. He won’t tell me a thing. I’d be better off asking _Ovech_ to ask Malavai _for me_.”

“Is there a _reason_ you stopped talking to him?”

Ille might have his head turned towards her but he’s looking elsewhere, far into the past perhaps, in the memories that he’s never been able to shake. “He wouldn’t investigate Lucian’s death. There was - there was an official report. He - he said he’d done his own investigations but _nothing_ was found and I _knew_ \- I _know_ that Baras was behind it.”

Damn. Her plan was on the nose. “You should try talking to him afterwards regardless. Who knows. Perhaps with Baras dead, you can try for a fresh start.”

Ille just ignores that. “You don’t talk about Lucian, and I don’t talk about tonight, how’s that?”

Ah yes, tonight. When she’ll be split open and her blood will flow like wine for the gathered vampires. She’s so close to victory now. “Are you trying to imply that I don’t _love_ chatting with vampires about my imminent demise? How shocking.” she asks sarcastically. “I’m sorry, Ille, I do see your point.”

He sighs and then looks her straight in the eye. “Tonight. I give you my word that I will not touch a drop of your blood.”

“I - Thank you. I suppose.”

With that surprisingly solemn declaration made, he stalks off to a less crowded section of balcony on one of the upper levels.

Someone clears their throat behind her. When Gimrizh turns around, she sees Lady Mara standing there, politely waiting. Shit, was she waiting there the whole time for Ille to drop his silence?

“Forgive me if I’m interrupting,” Mara says. “But my Lord Vowrawn has requested your presence on the main floor. It’s ten to noon.”

“Of course.”

She follows Mara down the staircase. The weight of her knife taps against her thigh as she walks, the murmur of the crowd a dull roar in her ears that will no doubt only grown louder when the actual duel begins. A few groups of vampires cheer for _her_ as she passes each balcony level. They _do_ know it’s _Malavai_ dueling Baras and not her? Or are they just excited by the prospect of a good meal once the dramatics are over?

On the main floor, Vowrawn has already become the center of attention, draped over a chair with a glass of wine in hand, speaking cheerfully to the rest. Jaesa sits in one of the thrones as well, with Organa standing behind her. She’s smiling rather bewilderedly at Vowrawn’s chatter, which, Gimrizh thinks, is probably the most common emotional response to anything Vowrawn does.

Then there’s Draagh. He still technically sits for the North, but she personally suspects that won’t last long. There’s a glower on his face as though a cat has just vomited into his favorite pair of shoes.

Marr of course is there as well, although he very much looks as though he would rather be elsewhere.

“About Lord Marr,” Gimrizh quietly asks Mara. “Does he _have_ a seneschal? I’m assuming it’s _not_ Lady Sartoris?”

“Lord Cytharat remains in the East. Unlike Lady Ekkage and Lord Baras, Lord Marr has the presence of mind to remember that his seneschal’s _job_ is running the East in his stead,” Mara replies. It only makes sense that with Baras in such disgrace and Ekkage dead, Mara can speak her mind freely when it comes to her opinions on the two’s style of leadership. “As such, Cytharat rarely ever leaves the East.”

Gimrizh finds that to be a far more sensible approach. “Who’s Baras’s second?”

“Baras…” Mara winces. “He trusts no one and thusly appointed Draagh for the position.”

That was stupid of him. How has no one exploited the ever loving _hell_ out of the North yet? It is _probably_ because of people like Ovech and Malavai, who manage to keep things running as best they can without Baras’s oversight. Although, when she considers the conversations that Mako and Nadia had, it’s likely that the North is _already_ being exploited. Honestly, the entire North should thank her for ruining such an incompetent leader.

Gimrizh takes her seat between Vowrawn and Jaesa. To her utter delight, both of them completely ignore her presence. She has returned to being the cute, edible decoration in the room.

“Ah!” Vowrawn claps his hands, “Lord Quinn!”

She has to swivel her head around to see Malavai enter. He looks just the same as he did when last she saw him, down to the rumpled white shirt and the rapier sitting on his hip. There’s tension in his shoulders that gives the impression of never being able to dissipate. Despite knowing vampires don’t require sleep she can’t help but think he looks tired. Has he spent this entire time meeting with the other Northern lords?

It’s no wonder he looks terrible. She’d always planned on emotionally manipulating him, making sure he’s too wrapped up in the story she’s spun to pay attention to what she’s doing.

Malavai bows to Vowrawn, stiff and cold. When he speaks, his voice is ice chips in a winter stormcloud. “I await your convenience, my lord.”

It’s Marr that gives the order. “Bring Baras forward.”

The command echoes throughout the enormous hall, joining with cheers and boos and shouts from the crowd. From the other end of the hall, a group of Eastern soldiers comes forth, escorting Baras to his fate.

Unlike Malavai, Baras has prepared for this fight. He’s donned a steel chest plate, and the sword he holds in his thick gloved hand is Gimrizh’s very own - just as she’d hoped - and cleaned of Ekkage’s blood. He wears his age surprisingly well. As he strides towards the circle, armor glinting in the sunlight, he looks every bit a threat. For a moment, she wonders if she’s seriously overestimated Malavai’s ability to win this fight.

“Welcome back, Baras dear,” Vowrawn says. “I don’t think anyone here needs to bother telling either of you the rules. Take position and wait for the signal.”

The two combatants stand about five feet from each other in the middle of the circle as they face each other. Baras raises Gimrizh’s sword and she hates to admit the familiarity with combat he shows from such a simple movement. Malavai draws his rapier with a _hiss_ of metal. He tosses the empty scabbard to the side and settles into the stance he’d held when facing her in the Vildenwald - blade tip down and one hand held loosely behind his back.

Baras glares through the noise of the crowd. “This’ll be over quickly.”

“Yes,” Malavai agrees flatly, “It will be.”

A hush falls over the hall as Vowrawn raises his hand, his palm open. “We have gathered to witness the challenge issued by Lord Malavai Quinn of Balmorra against High Lord Vikram Baras of the House of the North. All standard rules of combat apply. If either wish to withdraw the challenge, speak now.” When neither of them speak, Vowrawn snaps his hand into a tight fist.

“ _Begin!_ ”

Neither combatant so much as flinches.

Which of them will make the first move sets the pace for the first engagement and both of them are hesitant to play offensively from the start. Gimrizh has seen that analytical aspect of Malavai before, the way he picks apart an opponent before he begins. She simply hadn’t suspected that Baras might be similar.

A beat - and then Baras moves.

He’s fast for an old man, rushing forward and slicing a brutal line towards Malavai’s neck. There’s the sound of steel meeting steel as Malavai’s rapier pushes the attack just the tiniest bit off course and making Baras have to pull back or risk over extending.

Malavai steps in to take advantage, flicking his blade forward to pierce Baras’s guard. It fails as Baras twists his torso out of the way just in time.

Closer now. They both withdraw, slowly circling around one another.

Gimrizh is only peripherally aware that she’s leaning forward in her seat, her hands digging into the armrests keeping her from actually approaching the two. This has to go right. With bated breath she combs over every aspect of their stances, every flinch, every second, waiting for them to collide again.

It’s Malavai who begins the next engagement. He flicks his blade across, breaking Baras’s ox guard with ease. An enthused roar ripples through the hall, gasps of surprise mixed with booming cheers from the gathered vampires. To the two fighters, the crowd might as well not be there. Malavai might be cautious, but he presses forward anyways, sliding forward and circling his rapier around to deliver a fast undercut.

Baras is too close to disengage and his - _her_ \- sword is too out of position to deflect, but he’s armored where Malavai isn’t. There’s a truly awful screech of metal - the rapier hitting Baras’s forearm bracers.

Before Baras can bringing his blade down on Malavai’s arm, trapped in place by the rapier, Malavai flips his sword around into a reverse grip and throws himself backwards, landing in a low crouch a safe distance away.

Someone on the balcony boos in disappointment.

 _Nobles and their bloodsport_ , Gimrizh thinks bitterly. She might have set this up, but the only enjoyment she takes from it is the satisfaction of a plan gone perfectly. The violence itself doesn’t really do it for her, not like this at least. With vampires, she’d think it’s almost erotic for them.

Baras lowers the sword to a seemingly careless fool’s guard - not an opening Malavai is stupid enough to take.

“Don’t do this,” Baras says, slow, deliberate. “Do not let this _set up_ blind you.”

The words ring in Gimrizh’s ears.

It’s not possible. Baras _can’t_ have figured out what she’s done. He hasn’t spoken to Vette or Jaesa, he doesn’t know the letter is fake. Sure, she probably didn’t get his supposed crimes completely accurate, but he must be guilty of some of them, there’s no other way to explain his demeanor, his _actions_. What mistake did she make? Where did let Baras see through the cracks in her story? What has she failed to take into account?

_Don’t panic -_

If this doesn’t work she’s dead. She’s out of options. What does Baras _know_ , what has he guessed, what could he possibly have worked out in a few short hours of being under constant lock and key?

Malavai jerks away from Baras’s words. “This is not a set up,” he replies, but it’s less certain, more fuzzy. “This is - you killed Ekkage.”

A chorus of angry cries rings out from the balconies. Either from the accusation itself, or simply because the fighting has slowed to talking.

Baras shakes his head, that same slow thoughtfulness in his movements. “Discard your weapon, and we’ll talk about this rationally.”

Cold metal blooms under Gimrizh’s fingertips. Her hand is in her pocket.

She’d put her hand in her pocket, to her knife, so that she could toss it to the side and she hadn’t even -

“I would never have killed my sister,” Baras says. There’s an echo. His voice feels like a wave against Gimrizh’s ears, as slippery as water. “What _real_ evidence is there? I’m not your enemy, I never have been. While you fight me, the real enemy - my sister’s _true_ killer - runs free. You have served the North faithfully for a _century._ Don’t throw away that loyalty for a conman’s creation.”

 _How_. Baras can’t - He can’t talk Malavai out of this! Not yet!

And Malavai’s _listening_ to him! Malavai’s lowering his blade, not into his customary stance, but actually stopping the fight, letting his guard down! She’s crafted it so carefully to pull on everything about his personality that’d make him despise Baras, how can this fail _now_?

At her side, Vowrawn gasps sharply. “Oh Baras,” he whispers, “So _that’s_ how you’ve done it all these years.”

Done _what_ , what can Baras possibly be -

Compulsion magics. That’s why she almost threw away her knife, that’s why his voice sounds so strange and smooth - he’s not trying to _win_ the duel, he’s trying to get Malavai to throw the match.

Baras is close. Too close. Close enough to slit Malavai’s throat if he choses.

Malavai’s just standing there, still listening to him - he wants to believe Baras. That’s what her plan fails to consider. Malavai’s never wanted to believe her story, she’s had to force him into it. So many long years of being _so loyal_ to Baras - and to find that it is worth nothing? To find that he’s not been serving the North but his brother’s killer? He’s desperate for this all to be proven wrong. Whatever compulsion charms Baras is weaving have found a very easy target.

“Think of your duty to the North,” Baras continues. “You have an _obligation_ to wait, to consider this with a clear mind, to ignore this false confusion. Return to the North with me and we can deal with our true enemies.”

Malavai’s eyes are glassy. “I - “

“ _Malavai_!”

The voice rings out through the dead silence hall. Gimrizh whips her head up to see Ille, his hands tightly gripping the balcony rail, a fiery snarl on his lips.

Ille leans forward, fangs flashing, and screams - “ _Tear his lying tongue out!_ ”

She can _feel_ the compulsion snap - Malavai’s eyes widen in shock as he hastily brings his sword up - Baras swings wildly - steel flashing -

Blood blooms across the white marble floor.

Malavai cries out in pain, dropping to one knee, his hand pressed tightly to his side. Red spreads under his fingers and stains the white of his shirt a gorey crimson. Baras lifts Gimrizh’s sword, now splattered with Malavai’s blood. To her shock, Malavai flexes his claws, gritting his teeth against the pain - and then he buries his nails into his own injury.

White hot light bursts underneath Malavai’s fingers.

It seeps from his wound, closing it in a heartbeat as Malavai digs his own claws deeper into his skin.

In the manner of one delivering the headman’s axe, Baras brings the sword down - and just in time, Malavai throws his rapier above his head to block it.

Steel against steel, the both of them pushing with all their strength in a battle that’s pure force. It can’t last - Malavai’s injured, Baras has height advantage and the blade he’s using has far more mass than a thin rapier. Already, she can see Malavai straining under the effort, his blade trembling.

Suddenly, he drops the tip to the ground and all that momentum Baras had been throwing sends Gimrizh’s sword sliding down into the floor.

There’s a flash of steel as Malavai’s wrist twists in the most inhuman manner, winding around Baras’s guard and around his hands - her blade gets thrown across the floor to skid out of the circle - he slashes his rapier to the side in one fast, powerful stroke -

And then Baras is on his knees, screaming in pain.

Where his hands once were are now bloodied stumps. Before Gimrizh’s very eyes, the blood starts to flow backwards, back into Baras’s veins, his flesh contorting as his severed hands turn to ash, his bones regrowing -

Malavai slams his bloodied palm down onto Baras’s head and the healing ceases immediately.

Slowly, limping from the wound across his torso, Malavai steps behind Baras and puts his rapier against his opponent’s neck. “For - “ His voice is raw. He breathes in deeply, shaking as he does so. “For crimes committed against the North, for conspiracy against the West, for the crime of sororicide, and for the murder of - of Lucian Quinn, I sentence you to die. Have you anything further to say?”

Baras spits upon the ground. “I should have killed your brother sooner - ”

In one clean motion, Malavai slits Baras’s throat.

There’s a thud as Baras’s dead body hits the floor, followed by a clang when Malavai’s rapier slips from his bloodied fingers. Surrounding them, the balconies erupt in noise. Cheers and protests alike.

Vowrawn stands, walking into the circle to clap an exhausted Malavai on the shoulder. “Well done! Well done indeed! An excellent show. I daresay that was a faster end than Baras deserved, but I suppose that’s your right as victor to decide. You did a splendid job and I’m sure the North will recognize that.”

It is as though the world slides back into motion.

Jaesa is politely clapping, and behind her, Organa is doing the same only with far more enthusiasm. Marr is directing his men to clean up Baras’s body. The crowd is beginning to stream down onto the lower levels.

And Gimrizh -

Her sword is right there. She takes slow steps towards it as if she’s moving in water.

She bends down.

Wraps her hand around the grip.

“I just thought…” she says softly, ostensibly to Vowrawn. “That I might have something of my own again before I die.”

Vowrawn dismisses her without even fully realizing what she’s asking for, too distracted by the very furious Draagh who is beginning to make a loud nuisance of himself. “Yes, of course, my dear, go right ahead.”

She drifts through the group of lords with the sword in her hand. Her sword. Covered in Malavai’s blood.

The last piece she needs. She’d known Baras wouldn’t beat Malavai, although she doubted herself for a moment there. Similarly, she’d known that with her sword Baras could get in at least one hit. She’d needed someone he could defeat without walking away unscathed and she’d needed someone who’s weapon she’d have a reason to take for herself after the fighting was done.

Everything else had simply fallen into place around those conditions.

As she steps out of the main hall, completely forgotten by everyone, she glances over her shoulder to watch her work.

Malavai is in some sort of shock, staring blankly at those around him, even as Draagh has started to yell while Vowrawn plays the role of mediator. She wonders if Ille will actually speak to him after this. If Malavai will repeat her fabrications. So far, she can’t see Ille. Not many have gotten past the perimeter that Marr appears to be setting up.

Before she vanishes, Malavai looks up. His eyes meet hers. Slowly, his gaze drops to the sword in her hand.

And then his eyes go wide just as she turns the corner.

Did he - ?

She picks up her pace now that she’s away from the prying eyes and ears of the manor.

Making for a more out of the way staircase, she hurries to the higher floors, thinking that the last place Malavai will look for her - should he follow her - will be his quarters. The route she takes is very indirect, servant corridors and side halls. No one passes her - everyone’s too busy with the commotion in the main hall.

By the time she’s on Malavai’s floor, she’s almost out of breath from her winding, rushed trek through the manor.

But she’ll have shaken anyone who tailed her, that’s for damn sure.

After their hurried departure from Malavai’s rooms earlier, the door remains unlocked. She steps inside, breathing a sigh of relief, comforted by the weight of her sword in hand.

“I’d been hoping I was wrong.”

 _Shit_.

Malavai is standing in the sitting room, that cold, tired stare of his pinned on her.

“Ah.” She swallows painfully. She’d taken the scenic route around the manor - of course he arrived here before her. Knowing him, he hadn’t _needed_ to follow her to figure out where she’d be heading. “You came here because if I were trying to hide from you, it’d be the last place anyone would look.”

He doesn’t confirm that. There’s no need to. “So this was your plan.” He gestures at her sword, at the blood staining it. There’s nothing on his face, nothing she can see or use. “You could have realized back there that since I bit you, you could take advantage of the chaos to take my blood and turn yourself - but you’re too clever for that, aren’t you.”

It’s not a question.

“Yes,” she confesses.

“You goaded me into biting you.”

“I did.”

“You knew in advance that I - ah, of course. Your sword. It had to be a weapon you could procure without protest, and therefore I had to fight _Baras._ You set this up. All of it.”

“Yes.”

Malavai’s entire body slumps. He wearily collapses onto the settee, clapping his hand over his mouth as he shakes. Cautiously, Gimrizh takes a few steps closer, stepping around so that she can see him. She doesn’t even know if he notices that she’s moved - as with Ille, there is some part of Malavai that remains trapped in the past, and that is what consumes him now. His eyes are filled with tears as he sobs, silently and alone.

There’s nothing she can say here. What’s done is done. If he decides to fight her - well. She’s armed and he isn’t. He’s injured. It’ll be a far cry more even than it was in the Vildenwald and attacking her will only provide more of his blood for her to turn herself with.

He draws in a raking breath, his eyes pressed tightly shut. By feel alone, he reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws the handkerchief and the letter, her two forgeries. They might as well have been made of the thinnest glass with the care he takes to lay them down on the table, his fingers trembling. “This handkerchief is the one I gave you. It has my family crest on it because it’s _mine_. You - you wrote the letter.”

She nods. “I did.”

“ _Stables_ ,” he says, the word choking him. “How did you _know_?”

“Ser Ovech. He told me Lucian was fond of horses. That he was a skilled rider and a skilled caretaker.”

“And from that you just - ?”

“I guessed. Everything before you was just an educated guess. I played to what I’d heard. That’s all that letter ever was.”

His hand curls into a fist. “ _Well done_.” That he practically spits at her, bitter as poison. “I must commend you on your show. Truly, you couldn’t have done better. You really had me convinced that I finally got justice for - I thought that I - That was I was doing was - “ He can’t say it. His voice is a course whisper. “I killed Baras and for that moment, Lucian was alive. And it was just - it was all a _lie_.”

That might have been what she thought at first, but not after what Baras said. “He confessed,” she reminds him softly. “That letter is wrong - there is no proof of Baras’s crimes. Not because he didn't commit them. He was just too good to get caught. You didn’t fail to notice that he was behind Lucian’s death. You did all you could. By then Baras had simply disposed of any evidence. I don’t know how much I got correct but - What he said before he died does pin him to _one_ crime.”

“I cannot tell if that’s better or worse,” Malavai admits. “To know that I followed my brother’s killer like a blind dog for fifty years - “

“You got him in the end. _That’s_ what matters.”

“Does it?”

“It has to.”

He has no answer to that. Instead he clears his throat and uses his hands to wipe away his tears. “And Ekkage? I know you did not kill her personally.”

“I blackmailed a third party into doing it.” There’s no point in keeping any of her secrets anymore. Once again, Malavai has foiled her. The only difference is this time she can beat him in a fight. “I had Ille send the letter to Baras, claiming it was from Mancer Vette to Jaesa Willsaam. The handkerchief, I hid in Vette’s quarters so as to buy time. I knew that once he read the letter, Baras would send for Ekkage to consolidate his allies against this threat while he himself would go fetch the handkerchief. I simply told the killer where to wait for Ekkage.”

“And of course when Baras went to find his sister, he saw her dead body and knew that he was either being set up or that he would be the next victim. So he fled,” Malavai finishes.

She hadn’t anticipated Baras making himself look _quite_ so guilty, but that had been the general idea. “His actions were relatively predictable.”

“Everything else - was it all to manipulate me into dueling Baras?”

“I needed his crimes to be something you would find so offensive, so against your nature to think of. And it had to be personal - I knew you wouldn't move against Baras without blinding motivation." A rueful smile, touched with pity. "You are not the easiest man to manipulate.”

“And yet,” he says quietly, “you played me this entire time.”

She shrugs. “I played everyone here. You aren’t special.”

“Then why pick _me_?”

There’s no kind answer to that. “You were easy. I knew that it wouldn’t be too difficult to trick you into biting me. Everyone else would have required a far more complicated approach.”

“Complicated?” he demands, blinking incredulously at her. “You staged a coup and eliminated half our rulers”

Because it was doable in two days. Picking Malavai as her mark enabled her to only focus on the second half of what was needed to turn her. Had she chosen anyone else she would have needed to run two seperate games for both stages. And she likely would have failed the second half by attracting too much suspicion from her target. “There is nothing I would not do to secure my own life. No matter how difficult.”

He sighs. “I see.” And then he gets down on his knees, bowing his head. “I’ve betrayed every oath of fealty I swore. Finish what you started and kill me.”

“What?” Her sword has never felt so heavy.

“I cannot return to serving whoever next leads the House of the North. Baras might have been a traitor, but by killing him on false charges, so am I.” Malavai says it so flatly, as if death is the easiest thing in the world to accept and it doesn’t make any sense at all. “I will never serve Draagh and I could not live with myself if I failed to do my duty to the North. There’s nothing left for me. Lucian’s death is at last avenged and I will no longer feel ashamed to join his side in whatever fate awaits our kind after death.”

She gapes at him. “Nothing left for you? I handed you the North on the silver platter!”

“Excuse me?” Clearly this hasn’t occurred to him.

“You think any of them will trust Draagh after everything his sire did? He’s already lost half his respect after getting his eye gouged out by a human. And he certainly hasn’t presented himself very well these past three days. The North needs a new leader, _fast_ , and it’s _not_ going to be Draagh - it’s going to be _you_. _You_ defeated Baras in combat, _you_ worked with Vowrawn and Marr to expose his crimes.”

He stares up at her in shock - and then turns his head away. “I can’t. I will not use my treason to advance my station.”

She grabs a fistfull of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. “You said you betrayed the North? Well then make up for it. Don’t take the easy way out by dying; do your duty! Stand and fight for the North, clean up the mess Baras has made, do what is _right_ because you and I both know there are few honorable people in this world and I sure as hell doubt that anyone else who takes up the position would be half as decent a man as you.”

“You give me too much credit,” he replies.

“I give you exactly the right amount of credit. After everything I’ve done, don’t do me the discourtesy of acting as though I don’t know you -” She jabs her finger into his chest, “ _Who_ you _are_. And you are doing _yourself_ a discourtesy, Malavai.”

He glares at her silently.

“You think Draagh is going to be a decent leader?”

The glare twists to a scowl. “Of course not. That does not mean it is my place to assume I could do better.”

Of all the stupid - “Your _place_ is serving the North, is it not?”

“Yes, but - “

“Then it is your _duty_ to take up its leadership. Not for your own gain, but to work off the debt you owe them. To save the North from Draagh.”

Malavai hesitates. “I could sponsor Hurdenn.”

“Hurdenn did not defeat Baras.”

“I - I do not want to rule.”

“Then I imagine you’ll be good at it.” She doesn’t know why, exactly, she’s trying so hard to talk him into this. “You’ve apparently been running your part of the North reasonably well without much oversight at all from Baras. If you haven’t the ambitions of power that he did, you won’t be susceptible to that temptation. Admit you’d be good at the job.”

Suspicion creeps back onto his face. “Why do _you_ care?” he demands, his voice breaking. “You have shown that you don’t value our society or the North - or me. Why should I trust you in this?”

“Because I hate Draagh,” she says honestly. “And need I remind you that I saw Baras for what he was before you did.”

He stares at her for a long moment and then turns away, as if considering his options. “As much as I might find your methods distasteful, I _do_ owe you a debt for uncovering my brother’s murderer and allowing me to bring Baras to justice.”

As she watches, he brings his forearm to his lips and tears his wrist open with his fangs. Then he holds his bleeding arm out to her.

Does he mean for her to -

This can’t be right. She’d been so certain that if he figured it out, he’d hate her for it. And he _does_ , doesn’t he? She'd prepared for every eventuality she could think of, including besting him in a physical fight if he tried to turn her in. But to give her his blood of his own free will? To take a debt like this so seriously - she gave him what he wanted most - is he trying to return the favor by giving _her_ her heart’s desire?

“Take it,” he insists. The gesture is stiff, formal, as if he’s simply conducting business, but there’s something in his eyes that unnerves her. Anger, certainly, and that bone deep sadness that’s an old friend to him. He’s indebted sure, yet there’s something to this that she doesn’t understand at all.

She takes a measured step forward. Her sword is still in hand and she’s not sure if it should be right now. “Why?”

“Because I am in your debt.”

Red blood drips onto the floor. “I - I don’t understand.”

“For once,” he says, quiet and _tired_. “Let me save someone.”

She takes his bleeding wrist in her hands, brings it to her lips, and drinks. Without fangs, she cannot bite him, but he’s done that job for her and his blood flows freely. His wrist is cold under her lips and the blood almost makes her gag. The taste of iron burns, turning her throat into a pyre, searing through her in a way that cannot be natural. How can vampires _enjoy_ this, it’s horrible, it’s -

A shudder runs down her spine. Slowly the taste changes into something sweet, enticing, like spiced wine.  

Blood is smeared across her lips when she pulls back for breath.

She wipes her mouth with a shaking hand - she can’t feel her fingers. “I - “ He probably doesn’t want her here, his debt is paid - “I’ll leave - “

“I may not have turned anyone before but - ” Malavai begins and she can’t - she can’t hear the rest of his sentence.

Her ears are buzzing - she can’t feel her limbs - she’s fallen against the settee before she even realized her legs gave out - her sword has long since slipped from her fingers and she can’t even see it as her vision pulses in and out of focus.

Is this his plan? To kill her while she’s like this? He wouldn’t, surely, yet -

She’s unconscious before her head hits the floor.

~*~

“- Organa can’t do everything from this distance. Half the Western lords aren’t even here, and none of them have held Council in fifty years. It’ll take some time for Jaesa’s ascendance to be official.”

Gimrizh absently registers Ser Ovech’s voice as her eyes blink. Softness envelops her. She’s warm. She can hear again, she can see again, her body doesn’t hurt anymore. At all. Nothing hurts. Not the bite on her neck, not the various bruises that have been aching in the background, not the cut on her thigh that stung just a little whenever she’d take a step, not a single damn thing.

A fly buzzes past her eyes and she - her gaze snaps to the movement automatically before the fly zooms right back out the open window.

“I’m assuming Organa’s preparations for Willsaam’s return have remained undiscovered then?” That’s Malavai’s voice this time.

“To be frank, I haven’t asked her about _those_.”

“Neither have I. But I’m not fool enough to think she hasn’t been making plans all these years.”

“The joys of plausible deniability. Organa hasn’t been caught, and even if she was, you really think any of the Western lords would point it out? Regardless, Jaesa’s secure for the moment, under Organa’s protection, and she’s currently sitting as the assumed High Lady of the House of the West. I imagine once she returns home, it won’t take her more than a week to have her title officially recognized.”

There is no tiredness in Gimrizh’s body as she sits up.

She’s in Malavai’s rooms still, in his bed, the door to his bedchambers closed. Presumably to keep her hidden from Ovech’s sight. The light looks strange, somewhat brighter perhaps, and she can focus more easily, her eyesight suddenly better than it’s ever been.

Oh thank heaven she’s alive. She’s more than alive - she’s -

She brings her hands up to her face and stares. There’s a translucent quality to her skin, and paleness, almost pallid. Her nails are a little longer, a little sharper. Her stomach drops when she sees that the scars and calluses she’s built up over the years have vanished from her hands. Those, she did not want to lose. Not that she imagines she’ll need the thicker skin anymore, not with how tough vampires are. She’d just liked them. They showed her work, her years.

Her feet are bare when she slides out of bed, but her slippers have been helpfully placed by the dresser.

There’s a mirror on the dresser. She has to _see_ -

She stumbles towards it, grabbing it - the mirror shatters in her hand, shit, she’s stronger now, she can’t forget that. She looks into the shards. The white of her eyes has turned black, and gold, piercing gold, has shot through her irises completely. When she opens her lips, sharp fangs jut out.

The mirror slips from her hands and hits the floor.

“Is that - ?” Ovech asks, the question trailing off.

“It’s her _highness_ , if that’s what you’re implying, yes,” Malavai replies. “I’m assuming she’s just woken up.”

Shit. Is he going to - Ovech might be one of his allies, but the fewer people who know right now, the better. Gimrizh barely understands her new body and there’s no way she would be able to fight just yet if Ovech chooses to make this ugly.

“Oh don’t look like that,” Ovech says with a laugh. “I’m your friend, not your bloody _keeper_. Besides, she’s not bad looking for a human. She’s certainly damn less complicated than anyone in _our_ society.”

Gimrizh sighs in relief.

“I suppose,” Malavai replies flatly. “Has the Council gathered yet?”

“Mostly. Lord Hurdenn has apparently been doing a good job of pulling them out of their shock and getting them together. I heard Lord Broysc was a challenge - the man’s been sending ravens North to try and convince the rest of his line to follow Draagh. At least he’s got little _real_ power. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“ _Broysc_ ,” Malavai says, spitting the name, “has _always_ been a problem.”

“You can handle him. Who on the Council would follow _him_?”

“All of them, if Broysc can convince them that Draagh’s rise to power would fill their coffers.”

“I think they’ll listen to reason. Please don’t take this the wrong way but - they know you’re more bound by your oaths than Draagh is. Now, I respect that, and I’m sure most around my station would say the same. The Council on the other hand - “

“They see me as easily manipulated.”

“I was going to say it more tactfully, but yes. If you’re chosen, I don’t think that attitude will last. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be aware that’s what they’ll expect from you.”

“Thank you for your honesty. I’ll ensure that you’re the first to know after the Council makes its decision.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ve found that lately there’s no such thing as luck.”

A door shuts in the sitting room. That will be Ovech leaving, presumably. Gimrizh glances around the room once more to see her sword, lying in an open box underneath the bed. The temptation to simply grab it is only slightly outweighed by the realization that she isn’t wearing her gloves yet. She vividly remembers what happened to Malavai when he had simple _brushed_ his hand against her knife.

She jumps when Malavai steps into the room.

“I see you’re awake,” he says, calmly taking in her new appearance. “How do you feel?”

Incredible. Shocked. Strong. “I - “ She licks her tongue over her new fangs. Speech is different now. “I’m alive.”

He arches a cold eyebrow. “Well you’re not _wrong_.”

He could have killed her. She was defenseless, and he had her sword, and he could have stuck her down easily. Certainly, she’s somewhat protected by Vowrawn wanting to maintain this charade until the evening, but after everything that’s happened today and with only a few short hours left until they plan on killing her - Hell, Malavai could have chained her and dragged her before the rest of the lords to expose every single thing she’s done.

Somewhere along the way, her question becomes lost and what she says instead is - “I’m starving.” Now that the initial shock has faded, she’s aware that her stomach is deeply protesting its emptiness. “Why am I _so hungry_?”

“I remember feeling similarly after I was turned as well,” Malavai replies. He beckons her to follow him as he heads back into the main room.

There’s a black glass bottle on the table that she doesn’t remember being there before. When he tosses it to her, her eyes once again tracking the movement - the bottle falling in an arc through the dust motes in the air. It doesn’t slow down, not exactly, but it’s as though she can now see where the bottle is going to be before it arrives. It lands in her hands easily.

It’s actually a _clear_ glass bottle, she notices. The edges shine red in the sunlight. She reaches to break that wax seal and then pauses.

She won’t be like one of them.

“Where did this come from?” she asks.

“Look at the seal.”

The wax is stamped with an hourglass stylized to prominently display a ‘V’ - “The Mancer.” Oh thank heaven, she can drink it.

Her new claws make quick work of the wax, popping the cork out with a faint hiss as the preservation magic disintegrates. In her sudden desperation, she throws the cork over her shoulder, pouring the contents of the bottle down her throat. It tastes _so good_ , better than anything she’s ever taste in her life, better than sugarglass from Naboo, better than winter pies, better than - she can’t compare anything to it. It’s pointless. She just doesn’t have the words to describe it.

When the bottle is empty, she runs her finger around the inside, picking up the last few drops. At least her hunger has lessened now.

She licks her lips and places the empty bottle down on the table. “Thank you. Does it always - will I always _need_ it like that?”

“No,” Malavai replies. There’s still that frown on his face as he looks at her, as if she is a complicated knot that he’s struggling to undo. “You need to drink about as much blood as the average human contains once per month, or else you _will_ die of starvation. Craving just the taste is a less intense experience.”

“Thank you,” she says again, sheer relief flooding through her. “What time is it?”

“Late afternoon. You were unconscious for about four hours.”

Shit. “And you… haven’t met with the other Northern lords yet?”

“Only briefly, to confirm that we would organize and form a Council. _That_ meeting however, begins very shortly.”

Now that she notices, she can see how much better he looks. The bloodied clothes have been replaced and she could almost imagine he hadn’t seen combat today, although there’s the slightest hesitation in his left side - the wound hasn’t fully healed yet. His anger towards her also has not dissipated. And yet he’s still helping her.

“I’m sorry if I kept you,” she says. “I’ll leave, if you want.”

That stare again. What confuses him so? “You will need something else, as well. I had someone fetch these from your rooms.” He picks up a jewelry box and brings it over.

In the center of a selection of fine rings, sits his own glamor ring. The one he’d been wearing when they met. To think it was only a few days ago. “Ah. Hide a tree amongst the forest, I assume?”

“Quite.”

She reaches into her pocket, careful - _so_ careful to wrap her hand in the fabric first as she feels out her gloves. The black leather gloves cover her palms and only _barely_ goes up to the backs of her knuckles, in a fashion that she assumes must be popular, given how often she’s seen similar designs. Over that goes his glamor ring, which she can only fit on her left thumb. Then she just grabs a few at random to distract from the disguise, a gold ring with a ruby on her right hand, a polished black stone band for her left.

“How do I look?” she asks.

He isn’t even looking at her when he answers, his back turned to put the jewelry box back in its place. “Human,” is his short reply. “Again.”

So long as she doesn’t pass a mirror.

Or touch one of her weapons bare handed.

Or get too close to Pierce who undoubtedly will be able to smell the change on her.

“I know you have every reason to want me gone.” She twists the ring around her thumb absently. With her glamored fingernails, the gloves feel strange, not too tight really just she’s more aware of them than she would be otherwise. “And I’ll leave, if that’s what you want. But I want to observe. The Northern Council, that is. If you lose the position to Draagh or to anyone else - It wouldn’t bode well for me.”

That knotwork look is back again. For a long moment she’s certain he’ll tell her no, tell her to get out of his sight, and then - “You will have to stay out of sight.”

“Done.”

“Do not take this lightly. If they find you, they will kill you, regardless of the fact that you are now one of us, regardless of the fact that you are now technically part of my bloodline. Something like that - Lord Vowrawn would have no legal standing to complain if they killed you for intruding.”

Is he _worried_ about her? Or is it simply that her discovery would reflect back to him and then _he_ would be the one endangered? “Malavai, if you know me at all you’d realize that I will do absolutely everything in my power to prevent them from discovering and subsequently killing me.”

“I take your point,” he replies tersely, some of his earlier anger slipping back in.

That anger discourages her from saying anything further as he leads her out of his rooms and through the northern wing.

Regret at not bringing her sword with her constantly tingles at the back of her mind. It’s for the best. Vowrawn might have let her take it, but she doesn’t want to rub it in his face. It would also give Draagh an excellent reason to attack her unprovoked and then she’d have to expose herself to prevent him from killing her. She’s not naive enough to think that she _won’t_ run into Draagh again before this is all over.

Everytime they pass by another vampire in the halls, she can’t help but feel as though under a magnifying glass. She _knows_ , intellectually, that they won’t be able to tell she’s one of them so long as she wears Malavai’s ring. It still makes her tense up until the vampire has passed them by.

Will she ever be truly safe?

Malavai stops before they arrive at a large set of double doors. “This is where we conferred before I dueled Baras. There’s a mezzanine level above - take the corridor to your right and up the set of side stairs.”

“I understand. And Malavai?” The words ‘good luck’ don’t seem to be quite right. “I cannot blame you for despising my methods, and I cannot let myself regret my actions - but I _am_ glad that something good came out of all this. I’m glad you got justice.”

“That…” he sighs. “That is appreciated.”

She turns to hurry down the corridor just a second before he throws open the double doors.

Vaguely, she hears snippets of greetings being exchanged before the doors slam shut behind Malavai. Sure enough there’s a set of stairs almost as soon as she turns the corridor, and when she heads up them she’s greeted by a locked door. The handle is no match for her newfound strength.

Although now she does regret not asking Malavai to show her how exactly to create that helpful little aura of silence.

The mezzanine level is a glorified balcony, wrapping around a stately sitting room. There’s a line of bookshelves and an armchair that she quickly ducks behind for cover while the room’s occupants are distracted by Malavai’s entrance. There are seven, including him. The six lords she’s heard about, and then Draagh. Malavai, Hurdenn, an elderly man she assumes must be Broysc, and three women that she hasn’t met.

“Now that you’ve _finally_ decided to show up,” Draagh says with a sneer, dropping into an armchair, “we can begin.”

“ _You_ didn’t show up at all earlier today.” That comment comes from a stern looking woman. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be so aggressive without a leg to stand on.”

Malavai takes the only seat left. “Thank you, Lady Ranken. I do apologise for my delay.”

It’s hard to tell from the angle, but Gimrizh thinks she glares at Malavai as well. “Don’t think I am excusing your delay either, Lord Quinn. If _everyone_ is rather done bickering and making us wait, shall we at last begin?”

“This entire meeting is a _sham_. There is not a single good reason to call this Council!” Yep. Definitely Broysc. No wonder Malavai dislikes the man, Gimrizh has heard him say only two sentences and already his voice is grating on her nerves. “Lord Draagh’s ascendance is obvious. There is nothing to discuss other than covering up after Baras’s _mess_ \- and that isn’t worth calling a damn meeting.”

“Precisely,” Draagh agrees.

A blonde woman clears her throat to get the smirk off Draagh’s face. “With all due respect, after everything that the late Baras has been found guilty of, we have no reason or obligation to respect his decision to place Lord Draagh as heir. When he lived, he demonstrated that he clearly did not care about the North or it’s relationship with our allies. He betrayed every single vampire when he sold a single one of our kind to the Marshalls. Why must we hold to such a man’s decisions?”

“Beniko,” Broysc spits at her, “you are too new to this to have - “

“ _Lady_ Beniko, if you don’t mind, I might be a newcomer but my rank is the same as yours - “

Draagh looks like he wants to throw something at her, “And _I_ outrank _you_ and frankly your accusations are - “

“ - well founded accusations - “

“ - ridiculous to the extreme - “

“ - acting like children the lot of you - !”

The entire room dissolves into shouting between Draagh, Broysc, and Ranken, who has apparently decided that the best way to shut the two men up is to yell louder than them. Beniko herself gives up almost instantly, rubbing her temples to stave off an inevitable headache. Gimrizh rolls her eyes, and down below, she can see Malavai with a similar expression of frustration.

“Cease this gheist-clatter, please,” says the only person who has yet to speak. She’s a dark skinned woman with pale white hair and a nervous frown. “We need to come to a decision, yes?”

“ _Thank_ you, Lady Breev,” Malavai says gratefully.

Breev adds, “I think we would all like to know what Lord Draagh was doing earlier. When he decided to avoid this Council’s previous session despite the fact that his sire was about to be killed for treason. He might not have needed the briefing that the rest of us did, but he should have been here.”

One look at Draagh’s face tells Gimrizh that without a shadow of doubt he was speaking to Baras earlier. She knew he’d spoken to her, but not until later. He must have gone straight to Baras’s cell before that.

“Yes,” Hurdenn agrees, “I too am curious.”

Draagh sniffs, trying to cover up his guilt with haughtiness. “I was conferring with my sire. As is my right and duty.”

“And how do we know the two of you were not attempting to straighten out stories?” Ranken demands. “Your timing is atrocious and makes you look almost as guilty as the evidence of your late sire’s treason.”

“There is no proof that I was involved in Baras’s dealings.”

Beniko raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want to throw around accusations, but you, along with Ekkage were the only two people Baras trusted in life. There is a reason you are both his heir _and_ his seneschal. I find it very difficult to believe that you had no knowledge at all of what he was doing during the Western Campaign.”

“Excellent point, Lady Beniko. And,” Ranken adds, “if you _did_ have no knowledge of his actions, which I find doubtful to say the least, then it does not reflect well on your ability to lead the North. Heir _and_ seneschal, constantly around Baras’s manor and holdings, fighting his battles, being his right hand man - and you had _no_ _idea_ of his actions? You are either as guilty as he is, or incompetent!”

“I assure this Council,” Draagh says between gritted teeth, “that had I known of my sire’s actions, I would of course have informed all of you.”

_Bullshit._

Malavai seems to agree with Gimrizh’s thoughts. “You offered to accept my challenge on his behalf. That is a great deal of loyalty towards one who had just been accused of the highest forms of treason.”

“Please, do continue lying to us, Lord Draagh,” Ranken dares.

Bryosc simmers, resembling an angry kettle. “This is ridiculous. Lord Draagh’s bloodline gifts him the House of the North. That should be the end of it.”

“Any of us here could claim a close enough blood tie to take the position of High Lord, should it prove necessary,” Beniko reminds them all. “Our blood is not the question here, Lord Broysc. The question is if Draagh, through his actions and those of his sire, _deserves_ the position after all that has happened.”

“Oh _please_ ,” Draagh protests, “As if anyone else here deserves it more than me.”

Breev shrugs, hesitating as though there’s something she isn’t sure she should say.

Even though she doesn’t voice her thoughts, Draagh can follow her gaze clearly enough. “Quinn does _not_ deserve - how does that even work? ‘Oh sorry your brother died, have a High Lordship’? That’s asinine! This is _my_ right - I have been trained to take over after my sire, and unlike Quinn, I haven’t spent a century as nothing more than a mindless _attack dog_!”

“Exactly!” Broysc agrees, “Lord Quinn should remain what Lord Baras made him - an enforcer. We all have our respective places in the North, and upsetting that balance will not end well for any of us.”

Beniko lets out a long sigh. Gimrizh gets the distinct impression that she puts up with a lot of bullshit. “End well for _us_ or for _you,_  Lord Broysc?”

“Could we _please_ just put this to a vote and cease bickering?” Ranken says, cutting Broysc off before he could start another rant. “We are going _nowhere_.”

Hurdenn nods enthusiastically. “Yes, let’s. I throw my support behind Lord Quinn. I think he took charge of the situation today quite admirably, while Lord Draagh was apparently off getting drunk. Furthermore, Lord Quinn defeated Lord Baras in combat, a move which I daresay did more to restore faith in the North than anything Lord Draagh has ever done. That’s my vote.”

“I… “ Malavai adds awkwardly, “I will similarly vote for myself.”

Broysc throws his vote in for Draagh, to no one’s surprise. Draagh votes for himself. Beniko votes for Malavai, as does Ranken.

Four to two.

Breev doesn’t even need to vote. “I suppose I’m glad that the decision did not fall to me,” she says, “For posterity's sake, I shall agree with the rest of this honored Council’s decision and support Lord Quinn.”

Behind her hiding place, Gimrizh feels a grin spread across her lips. Malavai’s done it - she’s done it - he’s beaten Draagh. Selfish satisfaction at thoroughly destroying Draagh tastes even sweeter after the additional victory of turning herself into a vampire. She ruined Baras and now she’s ruined his heir as well. It is his just punishment for capturing her, for humiliating her. It might have been Malavai who defeated her in combat, but he did so on orders, and it was _Draagh_ who treated her as nothing more than an ant under his boot.

There’s the relief of safety as well. After everything that will happen tonight, the North will be somewhat safer for her to flee too. Malavai might justifiably be angry with her, but he hadn’t thrown her aside as she thought he would. If she hides in the North she does not think he will expend much to track her down.

“I won’t stand for this.” Anger burns on Draagh’s face as he gives the Council a glare. Even Broysc does not jump to Draagh’s defense, and just sort of makes himself smaller in his seat, realizing that he’s greatly outnumbered here. “You will all regret this.”

Funny. That’s exactly what Gimrizh has been thinking for the past three days. Draagh has shown up too late.

The doors slam behind Draagh as he storms out.

“Well, that’s that then.” Ranken gets to her feet and gives Malavai - who’s looking a rad stunned by the whole thing - a polite bow. “Congratulations on your ascendance, my lord. Do try to be better than Baras, as he was rather terribly unsuited for this position. I look forward to working with you.”

He almost gets up to return her bow and then simply nods. “Thank you for your support, Lady Ranken. I appreciate it.”

One by one, the entire Council streams out of the room until it’s just Malavai.

Gimrizh emerges from her hiding place and heads down the main stairs to join him. “It seems congratulations are in order,” she tells him with a smile. “I’m not surprised.”

“I am,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think - I did not believe they thought so highly of me. I am still uncertain. Was Ovech right in saying that they chose me simply because they see someone who they can manipulate?”

“We have no way of knowing. But you will _make_ them respect you, of that I have no doubt.”

“I - “ Malavai stops himself. Whatever he was going to say is lost. “I must inform Ovech of what’s happened. Have you considered what you will do tonight? You still need to actually leave the Citadel, and that means Lord Vowrawn must be persuaded to let you go. I can’t say for certain if you could fight your way out, and I also don’t know if he will find your actions entertaining or an outrage.”

She hasn’t, actually. “I need allies,” she considers. “I need some way to make Vowrawn unwilling to make this violent.”

“Meet with me in Lord Vowrawn’s library and I’ll join you once I’ve spoken with Ovech,” he tells her. “I’m sure you can find your way there.”

That last bit is rather pointed, a reminder of their earlier pen-related incident. “Of course. Malavai, please try and avoid Draagh. It’s difficult to say what he’ll do after this, but I doubt it will be clever. He’ll want to make you suffer for taking his position from him and unlike with Baras, he knows he can probably beat you in a fight.”

“He’s lost an eye thanks to you, and he hasn’t had the time to learn to fight with that hindrance,” he reminds her. “My chances have significantly improved since then.”

She doesn’t push her point. The balance between them is too tenuous and she barely understands why he hasn’t ordered her out of his sight by now. All that work going into figuring out who he is and she still finds that she barely knows him. He should hate her and he _does_ and _yet_.

So she just nods and leaves.

Fortunately everyone from the Council is long gone by now, and no one sees her. After she’s a few hallways over, she starts actively avoiding people, trying to shift her body language to something neutral and easily overlooked, sticking to the sides of rooms and corridors whenever possible. She’s done pretending that she doesn’t hate these people.

Everything about the Citadel feels different now. It’d been difficult to tell earlier, but now that she is alone, in the quiet echo of the manor, she can feel it.

Power hums through the air here, old power, like a breeze blowing through thin curtains. It’s faint, and grows clearer when she lets her hand trail over the stone walls. She can only truly notice it because it makes something inside herself resonate. Like vibrations. The stone vibrates with this strange feeling and then it vibrates back into her bones and her blood. It moves through her veins just as Malavai’s aura did.

It is in this distracted manner that she heads towards the library and she pays for it.

She rounds a corner and there’s Draagh, waiting for her. How did he - he must have seen her on her way to the southern wing and rushed ahead. There’s no way he knew her destination in advance.

“I _knew_ it,” he snarls. “I knew you and Quinn were conspiring to take the North from me. All your earlier denies were nothing more than lies - well now I have proof.”

Can _she_ take him in a fight? She slips her hand into her pocket, her gloved fingers brushing against her knife. “Draagh, you have _no_ proof. All you have is a baseless suspicion, one that pins half the blame on a dead woman. Congratulations on your _brilliant_ deductive skills. Truly, you’re a genius.”

Draagh leans in - too close. She almost pulls her knife and stabs him. “Quinn promised to let you escape, didn’t he? You will never leave the Citadel. He might have taken my position but there are still those in the North who are loyal to me and they will ensure that you do not leave. I will kill you myself tonight for your crimes - and you can tell Quinn that he will be next. You should have thrown in with me instead, _highness_.”

Is he only referring to Broysc? Or does he have others who remain loyal to Draagh over the House of the North? She should inform Malavai either way. “You’re a depraved bastard. And since Lord Quinn now holds control of the North, you are _nothing_ more than that.”

“Then you are even _less_ than nothing.”

“Sure. Good evening, Draagh. If you will please excuse me.”

He throws out a hand to stop her. “It’s not too late for you to confess what you’ve done. I can help you there.”

“Confess?”

“Come with me and inform the Northern Council of your actions. In return, I’ll speak with Lord Vowrawn on your behalf to negotiate your release.”

Heaven, he is terrible at being persuasive. His words come off sounding more like a threatening demand than anything remotely convincing. And Gimrizh _knows_ that he’d never actually help her as he promises. “I have no idea what my supposed ‘actions’ are. I have done nothing, and I do not know what it is you are accusing Lord Quinn of either, apart from apparently taking the North from you.”

“Don’t play dumb. Confess to Ekkage’s murder, admit that Quinn set you up, and I can save your life.”

“ _Right_. Honestly, I don’t think anyone in my position would believe a word you said.”

“Stop defending him. You might be in love with him but if you think - “

Gimrizh can’t help the laughter that bursts out. “ _What_? Oh heaven - you think - you _actually_ think that he has somehow manipulated me into falling in love with him for the sole purpose of killing Ekkage - this is hilarious. This is probably the funniest thing I’ve heard since I’ve got here. You’re a _complete_ idiot.”

He glares at her until she stops wheezing.

“For the record,” she says, still grinning at him. “No, I am not in love with him. I know you vampires have some very impressive seduction abilities but Lord Quinn has not attempted to make me fall in love with him. I know that ‘silly human swept up into a torrid love affair with one of your oh-so-superior kind’ sounds like a thrilling story, but _no_. And just so we’re clear, there is _no one_ who I would blindly follow to death like that.”

For fuck’s sake. She won’t deny that she likes Malavai more than most of the people here, but in _love_? Ridiculous. She didn’t even know him a single week ago. And she’s rather amused that Draagh would think she’s the sort of person to have such a fantastical ‘till death do we part’ attitude. It’s no wonder he lost the North so easily. He’s a fool.

“You - “ Draagh’s furious expression twists into something slightly more puzzled. “You truly have no interest in my offer to save your life? You must know that Quinn can’t help you escape. If you aren’t in love with him, as you claim, then why protect him?”

She smirks. “Human whims.”

“You’ll never leave the Citadel,” he warns her as she strides past him. “ _Never_. Not without my help.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made that clear. Thank you for such diverting conversation.”

He fumes behind her back. It’s rather hilarious that he’s wanted her dead this entire time, and now, his idiotic theory of what’s happened requires her alive to restore his position. Heaven, he must _hate_ that.

That said, he’s still a threat. He’s cornered, he’s got little left to lose, and that makes him very dangerous to her. Especially that comment about having his own loyal little followers. She wishes the threat he poses weren’t so nebulous. She’d prefered the clear deadline of the three day countdown her murder. Which is still a problem that she must deal with, only it’s changed form.

Malavai is waiting for her in the corridor outside the library.

“How do I make this conversation private?” she blurts out as soon as she sees it’s him.

Her directness leaves him taken aback. “Good evening to you as well,” he says curtly. “I see you were delayed?”

“Draagh,” she explains. “Silence?”

“Ah.” He holds out his hand and waits until she carefully lays her hand in his. This return to gentle contact after everything is strange to her. It’s not what she’d been expecting. “I am uncertain how to explain what it is we do. If you permit it, I will show you.”

She nods and waits.

A slow tingle spreads through her blood, starting in her hand. It’s like the buzz she felt from the manor walls, only different, because it’s coming from Malavai and also - it’s also inside her. It’s hers. _Her_ aura.

Malavai does _something_ to his own aura and she can _feel_ it now, she can feel the way it spreads out, enveloping her. It feels like a blanket, a candle being blown out, an empty room, it’s _silence_ , in such a base concept that she almost can’t comprehend it. She tries to grab onto her own aura like that, but it is hard and she spends a few minutes grappling with the mental concept of moving part of herself in a way that doesn’t involve flexing certain muscles. With Malavai guiding her, it is a bit easier.

When she finally grasps it, she can’t imagine ever _unlearning_ how to do it.

It’s just another part of her mind. A thing she has to visualize. She can spread it out like a cloud of air, only she can’t make it move more than two or three feet past her body before her head hurts something fierce and makes her stop.

She has to struggle again with the concept of silence, and it takes her a moment to replicate what she feels Malavai do. That permeating fear, the seduction, those she instinctively understands now. They’re concepts that her blood sings with. It’s less of a conscious decision there, and more of a way to extend her own emotions towards her target - _prey_.

She jerks her hand back. “Thank you. I - sorry. But thank you, truly, I’m grateful.”

Malavai clears his throat, his fingers curling around empty air before he drops his hand. “You were saying about Draagh?”

“Right. Yes. He cornered me on my way here. He’s got it into his head that you and I are working together - that you convinced me to kill Ekkage by my own hand in order to seize power in the North. It’s stupid, and he has _no_ proof - and of course it doesn’t fit into the series of events perfectly. But that’s less important than something he let slip during this little tirade. He has allies in the North who are still loyal to him, over their loyalty to the North as a whole.”

He swears under his breath. “I thought that he might but I wasn’t… Thank you for informing me. I’ll see what I can do, but I fear this will be part of a much longer campaign. The only _quick_ solution would be killing Draagh, and I cannot make my first act as High Lord executing my competition.”

Understandable. Still a pity.

Before he opens the library doors, he hesitates and adds, “You may want to stay out of sight.”

“Alright.”

She throws up her aura of silence as soon as she follows him insider the library, lurking in the stacks as he makes his way towards the desk tucked into a corner of the room - exactly where she’d stolen a pen from two days ago.

“Lord Quinn.” Mara’s voice drifts through the stacks. Gimrizh pushes a book to the side to peer through the crack, seeing Lady Thrask sitting at what must be _her_ desk. “How went the Council?”

“The announcement will be made shortly. I’ll be assuming Lord Baras’s former position.”

“Congratulations. I can’t say I’m not envious. That’s off record by the way - I of course support my Lord Vowrawn in all endeavours, etcetera etcetera. You’ll finally be in a place to do something other than join us in our political grumbling - although frankly, none of us have ever shaken the status-quo as much as we could have.”

 _Oh_ , now _that’s_ an invitation if Gimrizh has ever heard one. Mara’s fishing. Malavai can see it as well. “Perhaps. Who can say?”

“There _has_ been an awful lot of change lately.” Mara remarks, as though commenting on the weather.

“Hm, yes,” he says carefully. “It makes one want to keep their allies close.”

Mara’s eyes flash. “Draagh?”

“He’s a minor threat, yes. I think things might become rather more confusing than that.”

“A minor threat to who? Our little group of friends, or the North?”

“The North, primarily. Perhaps the newly reformed West.”

“Ah. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have some ravens to send out. The Thrask bloodline might not have the best pedigree, but we are, if you pardon my bragging, _exceptionally_ wealthy. I have a feeling there are a few Southern Lords who might need to be reminded of that in the coming months, no?”

“Quite right.”

“You should know, my lord, that my coin need not observe our political boundaries, especially if things become as confused as you suggest.”

“How generous of you. And Lady Thrask?”

“Yes?”

“You have always been exceedingly good at playing both sides.”

Mara laughs. “I’ll keep doing just that, then.”

Gimrizh keeps a close eye on the woman as Malavai makes his way back towards her hiding spot. There’s that damned pen in Mara’s nimble fingers, which she then tucks behind one ear, reaching into a drawer of the desk to retrieve an absurdly thick set of ledgers. That had been a most informative conversation to overhear _indeed_.

She ducks out after Malavai passes her, keeping up the silence to cover the noise of her footsteps.

“Are you sure we can trust her?” she asks as soon as the library doors have shut behind them. “I remember a certain someone telling me that Lady Thrask would eat me alive.”

Malavai absently leads her back towards the main halls. “She has the potential to be a very difficult enemy. But she has been a long time acquaintance of mine, and she’s lended assistance to Ser Ovech on numerous occasions. Lady Willsaam will certainly support you if she believes that you helped remove Ekkage. Yet we have no ties in the East - Lady Thrask can make sure half the South will be dragging on Lord Vowrawn’s coattails if it suits her.”

“What you said to her - you implied some rather drastic things.”

“Gimrizh, I’m not sure you fully comprehend exactly what you’ve done.” His voice bites more than usual. “You have not only broken a tradition that Lord Vowrawn has personally overseen for centuries - you _staged a coup_.”

Objectively, yes. The word ‘coup’ does rather imply political motivations that she’s lacking - but in essence, yes that is technically what she’s done. It’s more of a side effect than anything else, although she’s not exactly opposed to anything she’s done, not even the political upheaval. She has never pretended to be fond of Vowrawn, and she can’t say she’ll be upset if Mara decides to make things difficult for him.

What is she _doing_? This isn’t her world.

“Malavai, I’m not… This larger political scheme is not something I am skilled in. Three days isn’t - it’s easier. I didn’t have to consider anyone outside the Citadel, I had limited resources to work with, I had a very short time frame. I am not _a politician_. I started this, I know, but I - “ Ugh, it’s the difference between tactics and strategy, the battle versus the war.

He slows to a stop and his eyes meet hers. Something light and almost hopeful cracks just the smallest bit through his cold features. “You… you aren’t going to simply try and run?”

“Run where? _How_?” She laughs. “You yourself pointed out that I can’t escape the Citadel. I made my bed, and I intend to lie in it. I _will survive_ this. This is my path out. I know I’m selfish, but - this serves me too - I hate Draagh and Vowrawn anyway - I - “

She doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. She doesn’t understand _why_ , precisely, she feels compelled to finish what she started. Surely there’s an easier way out for her, she’s secured her own life and she could just abandon all this once the party is over and she’s freed from the Citadel’s walls.

A bell rings through the Citadel.

“That’s new,” she says weakly.

He pushes her towards the main hall. “Go. Lord Vowrawn’s guards will find you in a minute regardless and we must appear to be apart.” He turns to skirt around towards the western wing, to make it seem as though they were coming from different directions.

In turn, she makes her way to the main hall through one of the more eastern corridors.

Her chest strains against the drumming of her heart. It’s her third day. Evening. The last feast - when _she_ is to be the feast. She’s run out of time.

A haze falls over her. She simply waits for Vowrawn’s guards to find her, and when they do, laughing and jeering and calling her ‘highness’ with a snicker, she goes with them without putting up the fight that part of her mind is still screaming for. The guards presume she has given up - let them think that. This will either work or it won’t, and scuffling with a few guards will hinder her plans more than help them.

The noise of the main hall crashes against her ears like a wave of noise. No music tonight, not yet, but everyone is chattering and drinking and laughing, packed into long tables across the hall more tightly than fish in a barrell.

And they are all _thrilled_ to see her enter.

There’s a tight circle of cleared space in the middle of the hall, where Vowrawn lounges in his seat of honor. She can pick out Marr and Jaesa near him, the Mancer and Pierce not too far behind, and then Malavai - his gaze meeting hers as she’s led towards Vowrawn.

 _Everyone hated Baras_ , she reminds herself, _and the West hated Ekkage_.

“Welcome, highness!” Vowrawn stands and spreads his arms open in greeting, an enthused grin on his face. “I was hoping you would not be late to your own party. We are, after all, here to honor your rule!”

A jeering roar rises from the crowd.

Gimrizh lets out a deep breath. “May I say a few words?”

“Why, I think we’d all be delighted!” Vowrawn hushes the crowd before stepping back to give her the floor.

She tightens her hands into fists. They are all salivating for her blood, leaning in closer, practically foaming at the mouth. Fuck them. She steps up onto Vowrawn’s table, her skirts dragging over the plates laid out. A goblet is knocked over, rolling across the wood until it hits the floor, to Vowrawn’s apparent amusement. In the whispering silence, the noise echoes through the entire hall.

“I would like to begin,” she says loudly, her voice carrying. “By thanking you all.”

They don’t know what to make of that. Some mutter to their friends in confusion, some laugh but it’s without real mirth.

“Truly. I’d like to thank _each and every one of you_.” She drops the pretend banality, letting venom seep into her words. “For the _opportunity_ you gave me. Letting me be your queen for these three days - I must sincerely thank you for my crown. All of you, with your arrogance, and your belief in your own superiority, you all thought from the start that if I fought back it would be in an escape attempt.”

The grin on Vowrawn’s face has frozen still. For perhaps the first time, she has his complete and undivided attention. As well as the rest of the manor’s.

Her own grin is more of a snarl. “And so every single person in this manor wrote me off instantly and I can only _thank you_ for doing so. It surely has been an interesting party, has it not? Ekkage, despot of the West, _murdered_. By her own brother nonetheless! Half your government, remade! And no one here will ever know exactly how much of this party’s chaos was a result of _my actions_.”

A wineglass drops from someone’s hand and shatters across the floor, breaking the shocked silence.

Jaesa’s jaw is hanging open. Organa’s shocked, Pierce and the Mancer wide-eyed, Lady Sartoris is staring with open amusement, and Malavai simply presses his lips tightly together and watches. Gasps ripple through the room, frenzied, disorganized, chaotic.

Someone in the far back of the hall cries out - “ _Eat her_!”

“Yes, yes,” Gimrizh drawls. Her voice carries through the hall, even above the susurrus that’s she’s incited. “What has the human done? Who cares! Just eat them, it doesn’t matter. But oh my _esteemed_ lords and ladies, you have given me more than the one opportunity over these past few days.”

Slowly, deliberately, and entirely fueled by spiteful adrenaline, she raises her hand and slips the ring from her thumb.

Silence. Stunned, utter silence.

Gimrizh drops the ring into her pocket and sweeps into a mocking bow.

She has earned their outrage and now she has forced them into shock - these few moments of complete stupefied silence as every single one of them has to rethink everything that’s happened over the past few days, everything that they’ve thought about this party, everything that they’ve thought about _her_.

A chair scraps against the floor. Across the room, Draagh gets to his feet and strides through the tables towards her.

Fury thunders on his face. “ _You_ ,” he snaps, “lying, filthy - you don’t deserve our blood in your veins!”

Now that he is taking her seriously, he is _fast_. She only barely sees him move before she has to throw herself backwards off the table to dodge his fist, palm open and claws out to slash her face into ribbons. Her feet hit the floor and she slides into a low crouch. Draagh, his hand curling into a fist, leaps on the back of a chair and tips over onto the ground, landing with all the deadly rage of the predator he is.

The vampires around them are startled away, some screaming as the tableware goes flying. A circle around the two is quickly cleared as everyone presses away, the four High Lords drawing closer in contrast.

“I _knew_ it!” Draagh barks. “I knew this was all your fault - I should have killed you in the Vildenwald! You are a stupid, pathetic - you will never be one of us - we are superior to you in every -”

“Your mouth is moving absent thought. Either fight me or back away like a coward.”

He stalks around her, circling her, trying to perhaps go for intimidation but it can’t work. The fear he is throwing at her finds no purchase on her aura, it cannot seep into her blood, it is only a dog barking at a storm. Something new inside Gimrizh sings through her, not confidence exactly, not determination, but the untouchable rage of a caged animal ripping its shackles off with its teeth. He cannot make her cower.

She does not need to wait more than a heartbeat before he strikes again.

Everything about his movements screams of training and skill, and he’s abandoning all of it in reckless anger. He slashes at her with his claws and she twists away. He lunges towards her and she brings her knee up to smash into his gut.

It would be simple to draw this out but she doesn’t want a single person in this room to think that she’s anything less than what she is.

So when he leaps at her to tackle her, she turns her back to him and drops low. Her hand snatches his arm out of the air and she throws him over her shoulder like a sack. There’s a crash as he hits the floor on his back, his face torn into a breathless, pained gasp as the air is forced from his lungs.

She grinds her heeled slipper into his neck. Beneath her, he chokes, trying to claw at her ankle, his lips forming soundless shapes.

“You don’t get any last words,” she tells him.

Then she draws her knife and throws it into his undamaged eye with every ounce of her newfound strength.

His body twitches once, twice, and then falls still. When she looks, she can’t even see the ring of the knife, so deep into his skull that it must have pinned him to the floor, and lost in the mess of blood and burned flesh and other bits of gore that she turns away from.

Her entire body is trembling as she removes her foot from his dead body.

“Anyone else?” she asks, addressing the entire Citadel.

Which of them will be next? Malavai does not move, and his refusal to act pins the North in place. They are hesitant to remove someone who potentially helped dispose of Baras. The same holds true for the West, as Jaesa will not strike. They too have benefited, by her murder of Ekkage and the subsequent reinstatement of Jaesa. Gimrizh has not outwardly confessed, they cannot charge her, but they all know that she has done _something_. And so half the manor will stay its hand.

No one individual wants to challenge her after what she’s just done to Draagh.

That icey grin has slid from Vowrawn’s lips into a cold, confused smile. “Impressive,” he comments softly. “Very… impressive.”

Behind Vowrawn, Mara steps forward to silently whisper something into his ear, all the while her golden brown eyes fix Gimrizh with an openly appraising stare that makes her skin crawl.

“This is conspiracy,” Marr declares. He stares them down one by one, Vowrawn and Gimrizh, the West, the North - she supposes he sees all of them as suspect. “Anyone of you here could have turned this woman. You _all_ benefited from this disaster.”

“As entertaining as this has all been,” Vowrawn agrees, perhaps to make it clear to Marr that he is uninvolved. “You have torn up a most delicate social event of mine and violated the rules of our society. It does make all this feel rather personal.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “I really cannot allow this.”

Marr shoots Vowrawn a glare. “If she wished to join our ranks, then she must be judged as one of us. For _treason_.”

“Treason against what?” Jaesa asks. The question is as a steel glove cloaked in velvet and it occurs to Gimrizh that Jaesa will make an excellent ruler. “I'm uncertain which territory she represents.”

“That's irrelevant.”

“Forgive me, Lord Marr, but I do not believe it is.”

Malavai takes a half step forward. “If I am not mistaken, her highness - Miss Korribanil - has not in fact confessed to a specific crime. What that is should be determined before we can charge her. And indeed, which territory her crimes have offended would be necessary to determine who can press charges.”

“ _I_ have been offended,” Vowrawn snorts. “Have we all forgotten that this is _my_ party?”

Marr’s eyes bore into Gimrizh’s. All her replies die on her tongue. Either Marr will fight her or he won’t, but she cannot influence him either way. From his point of view, he must not believe Vowrawn - for Vowrawn’s personal conflict with Baras if no other reason. Vowrawn might protest her actions, but they both know that doesn’t really mean anything. No one outside of the East is trustworthy and Marr knows it. But from that perspective, surely he can see that he’s vastly outnumbered.

The entire Citadel holds its breath.

With deliberate slowness, Marr tugs off his right glove and tosses it at her feet.

“The East accepts your challenge to our rule of law. We will not stand for this chaos.” Hard eyes shift from Gimrizh to the other three High Lords in turn. “Or for any who would so disrespect our ways as to offer you hospitality or succor.”

He turns on his heels and walks out. And then the entire Eastern contingent stands and leaves the hall, leaving almost a third of the chamber empty.

Silence falls over the manor, awe and fear at the sudden exodus. This isn’t what she’d intended, she knew Marr was perhaps the greatest threat amongst the High Lords, but she’d thought - Her plans had never included him so closely as to think that she would risk his ire. No wonder Malavai had known to gather his allies. His knowledge of Marr, of larger strategy - she has had too narrow a focus. But this - this declaration of war against _her_ -

What has she _done_?

Vowrawn snaps his fingers and a group of Southern guards step forward. “As entertaining as this has been, you have rather _ruined_ my party. These fine fellows will ensure that you leave the Citadel and its grounds in the swiftest manner possible.”

The soldiers clear a line out of the hall. One of them clamps a hand down on Gimrizh’s shoulder. When she looks up, she sees it’s Qet.

She catches a glimpse of Mancer Vette and Jaesa turning to speak with each other, the calm and calculated look in Mara’s eyes - Ille, far in the back, almost hidden by the crowd, meets her eyes with that stoney expression of his before bowing his head respectfully. Then Qet presses in and she’s escorted from the hall under the close supervision of a circle of guards.

Unexpected regret twists in her stomach. She’d have liked to see Malavai one last time.

After this, she cannot expect help from the West and the North. Marr’s declaration had made certain of that. No one will risk offering her assistance. Not that she can blame them - both regions are in periods of instability, transition, and recovery. From what she’s heard, the West has basically no lasting power structure now that Ekkage is dead, and Jaesa’s ascendance will take time. The North at least was not completely destroyed by Baras, but Malavai will have his work ahead of him.

If she were in their positions, she wouldn’t help either.

Qet marches her down towards the lower levels of the Citadel until they’re on the ground floor, in an area of the manor she’s never been to.

A guard stands watch at a door, looking up at them with shock as Qet leads Gimrizh through to -

Outside.

She’s outside.

It’s cold, lightly raining, a grey sky overhead, but it’s the first fresh air she’s had since she tried to climb out a window. She breathes in deep. The rain lightly dust her clothes and hair, the water droplets so small and fine that they can’t get past the hair on her arms or the silk of her dress. She can taste the wet smell of the scraggy forest down the mountain on her tongue, familiar, welcoming, that permeating smell of pine trees.  

Freedom.

Then there’s the smell of damp horses. Qet lets her into the stables built into the side of the manor, his guards keeping a careful perimeter around the building while she hurries to saddle a horse.

She grabs a pad off the wall and settles it on the back of a pitch black mare that’s patient enough to put up with the fact that Gimrizh is very poor indeed at working with horses. Honestly, she should count herself lucky that Vowrawn is allowing this. Part of her had assumed that he’d force her to flee on foot, with nothing more than the dress she’s wearing.

Someone enters the stable as she’s adjusting the saddle’s girth strap.

“Malavai!” She almost drops the bridle and then has to flick a damp stand of hair out of her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

The rain has painted a layer of mist over his dark wool coat and mussed up his now wet hair. In his hand, wrapped in silk, is her sword. “This is yours. It deserves to be returned to you.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and then tries again. “Oh. I - thank you.”

A faint drum beat patters on the roof above them.

Gimrizh can feel herself getting increasingly frustrated as the mare continually refuses to accept the bit, pulling its head back everytime she comes near it with the bit in her hand. The fact that Malavai is now audience to her terrible lack of skill in this department is only making her more irritated, to say nothing of the embarrassed flush on her cheeks that is certainly _not_ being helped by the cold.

“Take the stupid fucking bit - “

His hand brushes over hers. “Here,” he says, taking the bit from her. “Let’s switch, shall we?”

“ _Thank_ you,” she replies gratefully.

She takes her sword, strapping it to the saddle while Malavai easily coaxes the mare into accepting the bit. There’s a practiced ease to his motions that she just doesn’t have, clearly evident in how efficiently he gets the bridle sorted out before handing the reins back to her less reliable hands.

“I spoke with Lady Willsaam,” Malavai informs her, breaking the silence between them. “Only for a moment, but her sentiments were quite clear. The West will shelter you, if need be. Willsaam seems particularly grateful for your role in Ekkage’s death - although she does not know the details yet, I suspect once she is able to speak more at length with the Mancer and Pierce, the truth will come to light.”

That is… far more than Gimrizh had been expecting.

“Jaesa is young,” she excuses, stammering more than she means to. “She - she doesn’t have enough experience to know that she’s making a mistake.”

“Perhaps.” There’s something about the blue in Malavai’s eyes that makes her unable to look away. And suddenly she knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “But she’s not alone in this. Ride North.”

“Pardon?”

“The West is recovering from fifty years of turmoil. They lack structure, Willsaam has yet to consolidate her power, and now they must begin to prepare for war.” Malavai trails off. “Ride North, Gimrizh. Lord Marr will not let the West or the North go unscathed after all you have done to aid us. We can shelter you while we all prepare for the storm that is to come.”

She bites her lower lip, her fangs near to breaking skin. “You owe me no debt, not anymore.”

He nods. “I know.”

“... Thank you.”

Malavai stands back as she mounts her horse. “Once you reach Savis, turn to the Western mountain range and ride for a full day. I shall meet you there with the rest of the Northern contingent within two weeks time.”

“Malavai?” She can’t quite find the right words. “I will be very put out if you die.”

She catches a glimpse of that indignant, incredulous frown of his before she boots her horse forward and gallops outside, away from the Citadel at last.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the rest of forever.

~*~

The sign on Gimrizh’s shop informs passersby that they are closed for business.

She dismounts and ties her mare up outside the shop, her skirts brushing over the cobblestones. The market is still bustling despite the setting sun, and her gown is attracting more attention than she’d like. Her ring - Malavai’s ring - sits on her thumb and so the residents of Upper Welshire are none the wiser to anything more suspicious than her strange evening gown.

No one is watching the main floor of the shop. She can hear the clatter of Tremel bustling around in the forge out back.

Her gloved hands trail over the counter. It’s been only a week and yet she feels as though it’s been years. She’ll never work here again. That, she has readily accepted - accepted it a long time ago, really. She’d known that would be true once she decided to turn herself. She will still miss her life here.

“Hello,” she says, stepping into the forge. The hot air from the charcoal fires is tempered by the chill air outside, no wind to blow away the smell of smoke, metal, and oil. Her new eyes trace the path of the sparks that puff up from the charcoal forge, the red-white flickers that catch her gaze with more intensity than ever before. A newfound beauty in her work. She wonders if it’ll hurt to stick her hands in the fire now.

The strongest smell is rich and meaty and makes a deep pit in her stomach cry out in hunger, as if gnawing on her insides in desire for blood.

Across the forge, Tremel gets to his feet and gapes at her. “Gimrizh? But - I thought - _what_ are you _wearing_?”

She can’t help but laugh at that. “A dress, clearly. Don’t worry about it, I’m only here to pick something up and then I’ll be gone for a while.” She gestures to the blade he’s left in the fire to get up to temperature. It’s a little too long for their forge, he’ll need to keep moving it back and forth to make sure the center doesn’t heat faster than the point. “If you leave that still you’ll fuck the whole piece up and you know it.”

“I suppose you’re not a gheist then,” he replies wryly. “A gheist would have no reason to yell at me for that.”

“Oh? Why would I be a gheist?”

“No one has heard from you in a week and a half. Your caravan never arrived in Luthow and I got a very angry letter from the ol’ Marshall. You’re presumed dead. Caravans getting lost in the Vildenwald is common enough for that.”

It’s a pity that no one made it past the vampire ambush alive. “As you can see, I’m clearly _not_ dead.”

“What _happened_ to you?”

“Such concern! Honestly, Tremel, I’m touched. I never knew you cared.”

He’s unamused by her sarcasm. “Business has tanked since your death was reported. I’m concerned that this place won’t make it unless we find a way to rectify this.”

Not that it’ll matter for much longer. She’s only here for a brief pick up anyways. “Spread the word that I live then. I’m going to be moving my main operations further North from now on, and if clients still wish to commission my work, they shall have to travel to Savis.”

“Savis?” Tremel demands in disbelief.

Right where she left it, on top of her dented anvil, sits her favorite hammer. It’s the first one she ever made. The wood handle has been polished smooth from years of holding it, the oils on her skin doing the job better than any attempt at varnish. A stylized storm cloud is engraved along the side of the metal hammer head. She’d made her own engraving chisels to do that job and everything.

“Yes,” she replies. She picks up her hammer, feeling it’s familiar weight. “If I were you, I’d consider moving somewhere… safer.”

“Upper Welshire is perfectly safe, thank you very much. Our parish hasn’t seen one of those damn ghoulcallers in decades.”

All she came here for was her hammer. She takes a deep breath, drawing in the familiarity of this place before letting it go. Her new forge will be in the mountains near Savis. She will come to love it just as much as she loves this place. This isn’t her home - her craft is.

“I’m not sure about that,” she tells Tremel as she turns to leave. “There’s a storm coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking around and reading through this whole mess of an au!!!!!  
> Please drop me a comment if you liked it, let me know what stood out and what fell flat. As some of you might know, I've been considering publishing this as original fiction (after liberal name changing) and I'd like to hear yall's thoughts on this :D
> 
> If you liked Gimrizh or my writing, please please please check out my main-swtor-verse fic, Iniuria, as a lot more work and sweat and tears goes into that fic than this one. I'd really appreciate it :)


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